Flight of the Wild Geese
by Sen Graham
Summary: With her army exiled and a choice between oppression under England or life as a mercenary, Ireland chooses to stay with her exiled army, now in the service of France.  1691 – onwards.  PLEASE R
1. The Flight

Flight of the Wild Geese

Summary: With her army exiled and a choice between oppression under England or life as a mercenary, Ireland chooses to stay with her exiled army, now in the service of France. 1691 – onwards.

Ireland signed her name with a flourish on the document resting on the mounting block. England stood by with a less than satisfied look on his face. He had thought he had Ireland where he wanted her. It had been his lifelong goal to turn his barbaric sister into a refined young lady. It was not just a whim, he had put much long and hard thought and effort into his attempts to model his sister into a proper gentlewoman. It had started when he was young, sending her a missionary priest who eventually became her beloved Saint Patrick when he feared for the condition of 'her pagan soul' as the bishop put it. She had surprisingly taken to Christianity and settled down, if only slightly, and started to spend her time copying books, illuminating gospels and meticulously pouring over old manuscripts. England's little sister was many things, but stupid was not among them. When she set her mind to it, the rowdy Celtic girl was capable of unbelievably long hours of study and memorized almost everything she read. She had not been a bard once for nothing.

However, Christianity had led to other problems. Years later as Scandinavian Vikings pillaged her beloved monasteries for their treasures, Ireland went right back to her barbaric ways to defend them. The sight of his sister coming home to him, battered and bruised from fighting, smiling at him almost apologetically with split lips made England cringe. There were days when he wished he had not helped her convert at all if it could have kept her safe. Every night she came home beaten he vowed on her broken limbs and his tears that he would grow stronger to protect his family, and his boss had just the plan.

Of course to become the head of his family to protect it, a certain degree of control was needed. In fact, the way his brothers and sister were, a lot of control was needed. He knew they would not like it, his siblings never liked listening to anybody. When Grandpa Rome had tried to civilize them they did their best to chase him out. England of course was included in this, but Scotland and Ireland had been better at driving him out. The Irish Sea acted as a natural shield for Ireland, and Scotland was as vicious as always. Rome had even gone so far as to build a wall to try to stop Scotland from attacking him, which of course did not work. It would take much more than a silly wall to beat Scotland. At any rate, England needed to have control over his siblings to be able to properly protect and guide them. He had to command their obedience and respect before he could even think of helping them or correcting their barbaric ways. The result, as he had known it would have to be…was bloody, much bloodier than he had at first imagined.

But he had gained control. There were still minor spats here and there but his brothers and sister were more or less under his thumb, or so he had thought. Their latest fight had been the war of succession between James the Second and William of Orange. Being Catholic, Ireland stood by James, feeling if she were to be ruled over by an English King, at least for the time being, her people would be better treated under a Catholic one. England sided with William, and won, crushing Ireland's last resistance in Limerick. The two argued heatedly over what sort of terms they would come to. Ireland, for all her barbaric ways was also a good talker, a very good talker, and before England knew it he had given rights to her Catholic officers and allowed her Jacobite army to swear an oath of allegiance to the King of France. Many of her Catholic citizens would be marginalized, but there was little Ireland or England could do for them, so Ireland made sure to help who she could as best she could. England raised his brow as she seemed very particular on the point of her army going to France. It made him suspicious.

Ireland rolled up the treaty after the ink dried and handed it to England, smiling. England reached out his hand to take it cautiously. Contrary to popular belief, when Irish eyes were smiling it was most certainly not like a morn in spring. It usually meant they were up to some sort of mischief. She was still clad in red for battle, and still dirty from it. Her red hair, which had been neatly braided once, hung over her shoulder in a scraggled mess of rebellious curls and tangles. Her freckled face was still dirty from the fighting, since she likely had not had a moments rest since the fighting ended, and the blue tattoo of a crescent moon on her cheek, which she claimed represented Bru na Boinne, curved in more than usual under her wide grin. England tucked the document under his arm and stared down his nose at his smaller sister contemptuously, "I really don't see what you have to smile about."

"A chance to travel abroad dear brother," smiled Ireland pleasantly enough. Now it was England's turn to smile broadly. If his sister thought for a moment she was going to leave the country to escape his etiquette lessons, she was in for a surprise. He had already enlisted the best of tutors to transform his sister into the most well bred English lady the world had ever seen. He seized her arm in a firm, but painless, grip and started to lead her away.

"I'm afraid the only travel you'll be doing is to England, dear sister, where you will finally have those barbaric notions beaten out of your head," said England smugly. Ireland had really retained too much of their Celtic heritage. She still had the silly idea that a woman could lead an army and, heaven forbid, be equal to men. Her quaint, silly Celtic people had not accomplished that much, not compared to Rome at any rate. His sister argued the topic with him venomously on many occasions but she could not deny that every nation with Roman heritage was a world power while she was neatly pressed under his thumb. At any rate, she was Celtic and wild, and that certainly needed to stop.

"I believe you're wrong brother, I'm going to France," said Ireland plainly.

England stared at her, his cool contempt turning quickly to anger. His sister was not going to France. There was no way he would let his little sister anywhere near his enemy. Never. He had done his damndest to get in a position to protect her from any man who would ever hurt her. Now she was finally under his control, he could protect her, and he would protect her from everyone, starting with France. "No, you're not. It's off to a boarding school with you. You'll like it, it'll be just like living at your old monasteries."

"No, I won't like it. Not if I have to learn you be a sod like you," said Ireland coolly, a touch of cruelty creeping its way into her airy voice, "I'm going to France with the rest of the Jacobite Army. You _did_ remember I am still a registered member of the Jacobite Army, didn't you brother?"

England felt his limbs go numb. He had forgotten, and now the document stating her freedom to choose staying in Ireland and a mercenary life in France was neatly placed under his own arm. He could not back out of the agreement, too many were watching and as a gentleman his conscience would not allow him to back out. He stared at his sister, who crossed her arms and leaned against a wall, smiling smugly. She had lost the battle, but ultimately was winning the war. Why could she not see England was doing all this for her benefit? To make her great? With him she could be living luxuriously, refined, never having to fight again. She could have what every other woman he knew would die to have. Still she wanted to run, to evade him. Why? Why did she insist on carrying on like a child, like a barbarian!

As if on cue, France sauntered into the room. His royal blue uniform shone bright and new, starkly contrasting the battle worn ones that England and Ireland wore. His hair was neatly tied back and he was clean shaven. His eyes looked around Limerick lazily. Limerick, by his standards, and especially after a siege could not even compare with his own country. The two were not even in the same league in his opinion. However, when Ireland had told him her scheme, he had of course, jumped at the chance to have England's little sibling under his control. Unlike Ireland, France could tell England's plans were not entirely about dominating his siblings. What more he could have in mind France did not know, and chose not to learn. Still, having Ireland pledging allegiance to his French King would absolutely scandalize England, which made the scheme worth it in the end.

He looked at the country that was to be in his army as a simple soldier. He could not tell she was female at first glance, and would not be able to recognize her as such for quite some time. What he saw was a short, stocky boy with messy red hair grinning devilishly up at him. Not very pretty, and much looked too much like England with thick eyebrows and green eyes for Frances more delicate tastes, but that could be changed. Young boys, as he said before and would say again, were the best. He felt that he was really killing three birds with one stone. He was spiting England, strengthening his army, and possibly gaining a new companion.

"Are you ready to go Irlande? You will of course be accompanying me," said France.

"Mais oui," Ireland nearly sang cheekily, her French hardly recognizable under her thick accent.

England watched, almost feeling his heart breaking as his dear little sister got down on her knee, kissed that French bastard's ring and pledged allegiance to his king. France glanced at England smugly, not even looking at Ireland as she made her pledge to him. Ireland likewise looked at England. She was the devil incarnate with her red hair, tattooed face and toothy grin. England forced his upper lip to stiffen as Ireland rose and France put his arm casually around her shoulder. He gave her arm a squeeze in a sort of hug with no real affection behind it, his eyes never leaving England.

"Consider this, Angleterre, my revenge for Jeanne," said France firmly. Then he took Ireland's hand and led her off to her new mercenary life. Only when they were gone did England sink to his knees and scream.

* * *

Ireland looked around France's cabin, which was almost as lavishly furnished as some of the castles she had seen in her life, but that did not surprise her too much. She had France were not strangers to each other. They often traded before Rome had arrived, and continued to trade as the ages passed. They had never had an official alliance, but were both Catholic countries, so they at least had that much in common. France had also come to her to have some manuscripts Rome had not wanted him to read copied and preserved. She had done it gladly. She leaned back in the wooden chair, with her socked feet resting on the table as she thought. Recalling her history with France, the two only really collaborated when they wanted to stab someone in the back or trade. There was no real friendship between them, only a shared loathing for various enemies and a common religion. Nothing more, and nothing less. Not that it really mattered to Ireland, the two were content with using each other, since they both got what they wanted in the end.

France entered with as much as a flourish as Ireland had used when she signed the treaty. He stared at her with a disapproving glance when she saw her sweaty socked feet on the table. After a moment his gaze did not let up and she sighed, removing her feet from the meticulously polished surface. He strode across the cabin, kicking off his boots as he did so and sat in the bed. His gaze never left her as he took off the coat from his uniform and laid back. He poured himself a glass of wine. "Would you like some?" he asked.

Ireland shrugged, "I suppose."

France waited for her to react, but Ireland sat in the chair, looking around the cabin with feigned disinterest. He groaned at what he assumed to be her stupidity, "Well you have to come here to get it you silly boy."

Boy? Ireland turned the thought over in her mind a little. No need to correct him. He did not need to know her gender. In fact it was probably for the best. If he knew she was a girl he might try to tame her as England had. She did not like dresses first of all, and she did not like the subordinate position that being a woman seemed to entail to both England and France. How Ireland longed for the days when she was an equal to her fellow men, before Rome had pronounced the idea of an independent woman barbaric. She walked across the room casually and sat beside France, pouring herself a glass since she knew there was no way the more flamboyant nation would stoop so low as to serve her.

France stared at her grinning. The gaze made her uncomfortable as she slowly realized that this was the first time she had been alone in a bedroom of sorts with any man, other than one of her brothers. She knew what women and men did together in bedrooms alone, but since France thought she was a boy she assumed she was safe for the time being. Still, the look he gave was a sort of predatory hunger she could not ignore, so she sipped the wine, trying to pretend that she was ignoring the whole thing.

"You're a fine actor, you aren't really in the service of my King but you still made him think that. You just might belong on the stage, you could be a very pretty boy if you cleaned up," said France finally, watching her drink.

"So my brother says, aside from the acting bit," Ireland insisted, "I'm a soldier as you recall. Being pretty does me no real service. It won't protect me from blades or bullets and it won't kill my enemies. Being clean I can see the practicality in, but for someone like me, being pretty is a waste of time. As for who's service I'm in, I may be Jacobite in name, but I know who's really going to be giving my orders and paying my wages."

"I find that hard to believe from the country that produces such lovely illuminated manuscripts…"

France brushed her tattooed cheek with the back of his gloved hand, admiring her like an animal he was considering purchasing. Ireland moved back slightly, not enjoying the feeling of his hand on her face in the least. Keeping her thoughts together and her voice steady she replied, "Aye, art can strengthen the intellect, but I do not consider it useful or practical for a soldier to be overly concerned about how smooth their skin is or what is in fashion. In the midst of battle it will do little good."

His hand went from her face to her side as he leaned over her, staring and judging. "You are in my service, suppose I ordered you Irlande. Would you let me make you a beautiful boy if I ordered it?"

Ireland leaned back to move away from his face, "Then I'd have to obey…however, I am allowed to deny orders I feel…unnecessary to my missions…"

"You stammered," said France triumphantly, "Yes, you could deny them, but you are also in my service. If _I_ should find them necessary I could court martial you for not obeying. I think I would like to make you pretty, to spite Angleterre of course."

Ireland paused to think for a moment. It would make England mad if she suddenly decided she would do for France what he had wanted her to do for him for so many years. In fact, it would make him furious. However, Ireland had her limits, and she would not cast aside her own principles that easily to make England jealous. She would betray England, but never herself. She would be as 'wild' under France as she had been with England. "I'd rather not if you don't mind."

France closed the gap more and before Ireland knew it she was pressed on her back with France hovering above her, the wine long since forgotten. He grinned as Ireland flushed involuntarily. Ireland certainly was a pretty boy under all the dirt and mess, almost feminine. Almost. No girl after all would ever let her eyebrows get that thick, or be able to stand having her hair out of sorts. At least the girls he knew. He moved his face closer to Ireland tried to sink deeper into the mattress. Ireland had to be a virgin, completely clueless and having no idea as to what pleasures were to come. "But I do mind…and perhaps when you are nice and clean I can teach you benefits to a beautiful appearance. And perhaps a little more on the side…"

With that he kissed Ireland, almost hoping someone was watching to report the news to complete his revenge on England. He did not get any gossip however. Instead what he got was a rather nasty right hook to the face and a knee in his gut. France gasped for air and rolled off what he had assumed to be easy prey. Ireland was instantly on her feet and snarled down at him, "You bloody sodomite!"

She left France to rub his cheek and think about what he did and stormed up onto the deck, sailors and crew dodging out of her way in hear of invoking her legendary Irish temper. She gazed out across the sea to Ireland, watching her home fade into the distance and felt her lips. It all seemed so worthless now. She had thought that perhaps if she had slighted England, even a little than moving away from her little green island for a short time would be worth it. She was not finding it was not. She did not like France, and really had never liked France, and had no desire to travel anywhere outside her beautiful island home. But what future did she have there? A life as England's pet project? To be put on display for him so he could show the world how nicely he had trained her? To be marginalized and ordered around in her own country? Over a religion he had given her in the first place on top of all that?

She watched her home fade into nothingness. She pulled out her handkerchief because her eyes must have been watering from the salt air. Ireland never cried, and was not about to start now. She rubbed her eyes and they started to water more. She looked down and discovered to her disgust that her once white cloth was grey with sweat and dirt. A white one soon appeared over her shoulder.

"Desole…" said France's voice from behind her, "I forgot…I'm…I should have considered…"

"Oh don't apologize," snapped Ireland, "I hate watching men grovel."

"Unless it's Angleterre?" offered France with a smirk.

"I suppose." Ireland did not smile in reply.

* * *

_Ooookay, before anyone reviews for the sole purpose of pointing out historical inaccuracies, I know where they are and what they are. If I made everything 100% accurate the story would be A) too damn long or B) take away from character development and plot points. So, please don't flame me because of any minor inaccuracies. However, if you see a major one and feel it should be brought to my attention, please do so! I'd also love to hear from you if you know of a historical event involving any of the main characters that you would like to see included._

_Basic historical premise of the fic (for those who skimmed and missed it...you know who you are) is The Flight of the Wild Geese after 1691 and the major land battles that the Irish Brigade fought in the service of the French. Okay, _technically_ in the service of James II, but as Ireland mentioned, we all knew who really paid the bills and gave the orders. The Irish Brigade was in the service of France for a hundred years, but was disbanded because...well, that would be a spoiler wouldn't it? Oh, and the The Treaty of Limerick really was signed on a mounting block. Personally I find it an odd place to sign a treaty but, whatever. You can still go see the Treaty Stone in Limerick today._

_Oh, and this may shock some readers, but I did not make up that bit about St. Patrick being Brittish by birth. Scottish if you want to be specific about it. His given name was Maewyn Succat, but it was changed to Patrick when he was ordained as a bishop._

_Please R&R Feedback is desperately needed and wanted. I'll take requests, mail you cookies, feed your pigs, I don't care, just review pleeeeeease~_


	2. Preparations for Steenkerque

Preparations for Steenkerque

Scotland, the bastard, was laughing at him and Wales sniggering while pretending to blow his nose was not helping. England had to of course explain to his brothers the reason why their sister had not moved in with them as planned. He did not need this. Not on top of being part of the Augsburg league, losing Ireland and having to now fight his nemesis and his sister. He had Ireland's land, yes, but not her, and to him, his sister was what really mattered. Yet she still evaded him, and now he would have to fight her. Would life never give him a break? Obviously not since he now had to deal with the brutish Scotsman and little Welshman. For a moment he though Scotland was actually going to burst a lung from laughing so hard. The Scotsman had been ridiculously good humoured for roughly the last two years.

England looked about the camp. It was mostly quiet, most of the soldiers opting to get some rest before their surprise attack, write letters to loved ones in the event they were killed and make peace with God while they had the chance. A few were still awake and running about seeing to last minute preparations.

"That's our sister for you," laughed Scotland, slapping his knee with his massive calloused hands. It was really more of a roar than a laugh in England's own opinion, but to Scotland he was actually keeping his voice fairly low. "Good on that lass!"

"She's going to be fighting, on the side of France, doesn't that bother either of you idiots!" snapped England. His siblings were not stupid, they all had remarkable talents and strengths, but they all seemed to have their priorities backwards. Running off and adventuring with a renowned womanizer and who knew what else was not appropriate for a young lady. This was going to be the ruin of Ireland's already mangled reputation, the straw that would break the camel's back. He wanted to show the world his sister was not just a loud, rude drunk who liked to fight, but that she had some class, and then would hopefully become a good proper nation that others would respect. Though it seemed if Scotland had his way Ireland would still be running around in tartans yelling obscenities and fighting anything that moved. "We have to fight our own sister!"

Wales shrugged and Scotland rolled his eyes. Wales looked at Scotland and the bigger man nudged him with his bulging arm. "Well, she can't die you know, not unless Ireland itself dies. She'll be okay, just a little beaten up, and sis can take a punch."

England was disgusted with the way the Welshman said it so nonchalantly with his sweet piping voice. Their sister was going to fight against them in a war and those two did not even seem to bat an eyelash over it. Come to think of it, the two had the nerve to celebrate when Ireland came home battered and bruised from fights. They had been proud that she fought and won, never minding how much damage she took. Was he the only one that honestly cared if his sister got hurt! "She's our sister! It's our responsibility as her brothers to take care of her!"

"Says you, Longshanks," said Scotland darkly, using the old and hated nickname for one of England's previous bosses, "Up until you decided to take charge we were always capable of looking out for ourselves, including Ireland. I really don't see what gives us the right to interfere with what she wants."

"You big oaf! She's going to get hurt!" yelled England. This was not one of their silly little tribal games, it was war. People and nations died. Though it was harder to kill a nation, the pain they felt was very much real, and with the sneak attack planned, chances were Ireland would be hurt very badly. At this point in England's mind whatever choice his sister had in the matter was gone. If it were up to him, she would be sent straight home and far from any battlefield.

"Sis isn't stupid," said Wales, slightly less cheerfully. England had never seen Wales angry for centuries, even when he was upset or angry he seemed to have a smile on his face. If fact, England thought he would be afraid if someday Wales was frowning, "She knows the risks and made her choice, just like when we were all fighting those Viking types. And besides, we don't have to fight our sister; you're the one who's making us fight her, silly English."

"Besides, don't you have two colonies you should be worrying about?" asked Scotland, "America and…and…that French one…Can…Can of something…"

"Oh, Can-of-Duh, right?" asked Wales.

"You two needn't concern yourselves. They're both good, strong colonies and they can look out for themselves," said England. They were both quite strong, in their own ways. America was very physically strong, almost as strong as any country. England might not have believed it if he had not seen America pick up a bison with his bare hands and spin it around. The boy was only half England's height and he could already bench-press more than him easily. Canada on the other had was not as physically strong, but he had quite the mental capacity. While most countries might have been crippled or driven insane by a sudden change in culture, Canada had adapted quite well. The two boys would be fine. England smiled softly to himself. As much as he did care for Canada, and tried his best not to play favourites, he was much more attached to America. They had been together longer, they had become close friends. Canada on the other hand had not wanted to be with him in the first place and was taken away from France by force. Unpleasant memories always resurfaced around Canada while America's was much more warm and comforting to him.

"So…It is Can-of-duh, right?" asked Wales.

"No, of course not it's…His name is…he's…it's slipped my mind, it will come back to me soon…" brooded England.

"Heh, you stole France's little colony and you can't even remember his name. That's a low blow English," giggled Wales.

England stared into Wales' sweet and honest face never wanting to punch it so much in his life. Scotland of course was mulling over the words in his mind and agreeing with them whole heartedly. As for colonies, yes spite had been part of their dealings, as always, but in the long run Canada was better off English. France probably would have abandoned him if the boy had not had an abundance of wildlife and furs had not been popular. What was more, he had seen France. The man had no decency to speak of. Canada would have likely fallen prey to him, and England hated the idea of France right next to his dearest America. Though now the pervert had his sister…

France and England had been rivals since before England could even begin to remember. It seemed even when they had been a mess of little Celtic tribes they had been competing. In that time they had done any number of horrible things to each other. France, of course, had conquered England at one point, leading to any number of problems between Normans and Saxons. Then of course, the one everyone seemed to remember was when England had Joan of Arc burned at the stake. England huffed to himself. No other countries seemed to remember that France's own government had plotted behind his back to have his precious maid burned. All people ever remembered was how horrible England had been to poor France. Now of course, France was having his little revenge by taking his sister. England paused and thought. Ireland would be safe, if anything did happen to her, or if France threatened to do anything, England could always threaten Canada. Not that he would physically hurt the boy, just start to slowly peel away that French identity of his.

"Enough, you two don't need to know or care about my colonies. Just do your jobs," snapped England, "But I really can't believe you two. Ireland ran off with France of all people and neither of you are concerned with her virtue."

"Sis is a virgin?" said Wales confused.

"Of course she is you twit!" yelled England.

"No need to shout. I just didn't know, I've never asked her, but I see you have. Wow English, you're a pervert," smiled Wales.

"Ah France…" said Scotland wistfully, "The Auld Alliance is still going strong. But don't worry about him and Ireland, sis can manage herself. The Frenchman is strong, but scrawny, she can take him. Besides, he's not _that_ good in bed."

England and Wales turned and looked at Scotland suddenly. Wales' ever present grin had faltered for a moment as he looked at England for verification on what he had just heard. England could only stare in horror at the giant Scotsman. His brother had been with France, in bed, doing things that men should not be doing together in a bed. Scotland looked down at his brothers, almost daring the smaller men to do something about what he had just said. England shuddered as mental images began to kick in. He had the displeasure of seeing Scotland naked before when they were younger and had never entirely been able to bar the image from his mind. Now the thought of Scotland with France was, simply too much for words. Wales smile slowly began to creep back onto his face again, though it was one of nervousness.

England almost wanted to pull his hair out in frustration. All in the same year he had lost his sister, had to get war preparations ready and found out his burly older brother had slept with his long time enemy. Could this really honestly get any worse? Finally Wales piped up and smiled broadly, "Well, better France than a sheep right?"

"You bandy legged monkey! I've told you a thousand times I don't sleep with sheep! That's probably your kick isn't it!"

As the Scotsman began to strangle Wales for what was certainly not the first or last time England groaned. So much for invoking some sense of brotherly duty in his brothers. They were barbarians, the lot of them, not even caring about what Ireland needed. She was in terrible danger with France and was going to get hurt. His stupid brothers were too busy being brutes to even begin to comprehend the danger. Still, England had to admit he was getting a small amount of satisfaction watching Scotland strangle their brother, though it was creepy how Wales could still manage to smile and giggle like that.

Wales had was not normal, even when compared with his siblings he had never been normal, coming from one of the most chronically depressed countries in Europe and being so happy all the time. In England's opinion he was the quiet one. Wales was the one who was very capable of watching, waiting and striking when and where it hurt most. His words were usually filled with his own special brand of sarcasm and digs at his siblings, some more blatant than others. He had also not taken being united with England particularly well. Not that Scotland and Ireland had not taken their brother's attempts at uniting them well either, but Wales reacted in a way that frightened England, he remained quiet about it, at least in comparison. While the other two were more than happy to shoot their mouths off and rant to anyone about their blatant hatred for England, Wales would watch and wait pleasantly. He would grin like a Cheshire cat with a slim mouth and narrow eyes peeking thoughtfully behind tawny bangs. England never knew what their brother was planning behind his smile but he did not like it. His brother was perfectly capable of being as ruthless as the rest, and decimates his enemies with a song on his lips and a big smile on his face.

Scotland was much more brutish. He did not act like one all the time and England would admit, with some coaxing, that Scotland was not stupid, far from it. But Scotland did himself no favours in disproving this misconception, especially where his appearance was concerned. He was a tall, imposing man with arms as thick as an average man's thighs and a loud booming voice that could be heard from a remarkable distance. He had thick, dark hair and what seemed to be a permanent five o'clock shadow on his face no matter how many times he shaved, or claimed to shave. At least _this_ time England had convinced him not to wear that skirt of his into battle. While Scotland did not wear a kilt all the time, he usually would on special occasions or as part of a uniform. Thankfully England had changed that this time. The last thing he needed was to get yet another disturbing view of Scotland's 'vital regions.'

"Where the bloody hell are Denmark and Netherlands…" grumbled England, trying to change the subject, "Especially Netherlands, I don't like his attitude about all this."

"Well, they are Scandinavian, so maybe they're pillaging the women and raping the fields…or was it the other way around," mused Wales, who had found a leek and was amusing himself by humming and twirling it. "Do they still have those giant axes? I always thought they'd be useful for chopping leeks…and decapitating things."

"Don't remind me," mumbled England, "I still get nightmares about us being attacked by that psychotic Dane and that stingy Dutch bastard-"

"Who's a stingy Dutch bastard?"

England turned to find the imposing figure of the Netherlands behind him, staring down menacingly with his large double headed axe resting on his shoulder. Denmark was close behind, also carrying his signature axe, but not seeming as perturbed. Denmark was a very cheerful and good natured person by nature, even in fights and did not really take offense to being called crazy. In fact, he found it rather refreshing. Netherlands was not so happy about being called stingy. Apparently he had been listening, possibly for some time and were not very happy with what he had been hearing. Wales grinned more broadly, "Hey Netherland's here. If I pulled out a penny, would you and Scotland fight over it and invent copper wire?"

"Shut up Wales," ordered England.

Denmark looked around, "Leek-breath, hairy crossdresser, megalomaniac pirate…where's the crazy monk? I thought there were four of you."

"Ireland is…fighting with France," said England regretfully, "He's been a very naughty boy…"

"I thought this one would be fighting for France," said Netherlands, jerking his thumb in Scotland's direction.

England grumbled to himself and Scotland crossed his arms, "It's complicated."

"Aw, I thought you were in love," said Wales before shrugging and heading towards his tent, "By the way, since we're fighting Éirinn, can I go all out?"

The two other nations shrugged off his comment, as it really meant nothing to them. Scotland started slightly, having planned to go a little easier on their sister and his long time friend and it was all England could do to keep his jaw from dropping. He gulped. Ireland would not die, and since her exiled army had little impact on her country it would be nearly impossible for her to die no matter how much damage she took. At the same time, when Wales went 'all out' he was not joking, and Wales only ever really went 'all out' in his fights with his brothers. England had seen exactly what it meant and it was not pretty, but if it convinced Ireland to come back sooner…

"Go beyond all out."

Wales' broad, toothy grin was reflected in the campfire light as night turned to dusk.

* * *

Ireland bolted up in his sleep shrieking, to which France groaned and held his pillow over his ears. This was why he did not like sharing a tent while on campaigns. Soldiers either had flashbacks or visions of what was to come, wake up screaming and France would never get a decent night's sleep. He wondered what time it was. Four, maybe three in the morning. He groaned as he heard the young boy panting. To his credit this was the first time it had happened, making Ireland a slightly more pleasant tent-mate than most. Now if the chilly boy would allow him a little closer at night, perhaps even share a bed than the whole experience might have been worth it, especially if his performance was anything like Scotland's. France rolled on his side as he heard hard bare feet hit the ground and clothes start rustling. Ireland was an early riser, often waking up with the sun to run or do arm strengthening exercises, but this was a little odd. The sun was not even up yet.

"Wake up…" he whispered. France could hear his heavy and quick breathing along with his little heart pounding a mile a minute. It was cute, but the early morning was no time for cuteness, it was time for sleeping. He groaned in reply and pulled the coarse army blankets tighter around himself. Why did they not have separate tents? It was a little too early for his memory to be working at full capacity but her was fairly sure Ireland had not wanted to share a tent with him, the boy had been uneasy since their first kiss. Something about less packing? The 'nations' always fought separate from the armies. How that started France had no idea but it seemed somehow that they were always separated and fought one on one. Even if the army came along for back up, the fight usually came down to nations fighting each other on their own. France really had no idea why, but it just always seemed to work out that way, and the army of the winning nation always won. Whether the nations won because their armies won or if the armies won because the nations won France had no idea. At any rate, he and Ireland were separated from their respective units and sharing a tent, and France could not say he was happy staying with a prude who liked to get up at dawn.

"Wake up!" he insisted. France could hear him cleaning and loading his gun. With a groan he sat up slightly, leaning on his side, hoping he did not have bed-head.

"It was a nightmare, go back to sleep…" grumbled France.

"I don't believe in coincidence," grunted Ireland, "I dreamed about Cu Culainn. There were crow lords…and his organs spelled out danger!"

"And I was dreaming about chocolate and Samuel de Chaplain! Go back to bed!" hissed France, tossing his pillow at the boy.

"Who the…" Ireland wondered aloud, then shook his head and continued, "Cu Culainn was a hero in old Ireland. When he died he used his intestines to tie himself to a standing stone so as to die on his feet and intimidate his enemies."

France groaned and lay back on his cot, "Charming. Now go to bed."

"You don't understand! I was a bard, I used to do soothsaying, read entrails to tell the future. Cu Culainn's clearly spelled out ill omen," explained Ireland.

"So, you are telling me to get out of bed, because your dreamed up boyfriend's internal organs looked funny?" said France.

"He's not made up! Look, I have a really bad feeling about this…" said Ireland, actually looking a little nervous. It was cute, but France still held to the belief that cute was not worth waking up before eight o'clock in the morning for. He pulled the blankets over his head and made a melodramatic groan.

"Irlande, I've told you a million times, unless the English are attacking, it's the final judgement or you are finally going to have sex with me, don't wake me up!" snapped France.

Ireland huffed and strode out, leaving an angry and very much awake France to brood. The boy was too much like England. Proud, arrogant, set in his ways and always putting business before pleasure. France was convinced Ireland never simply did anything because he felt like it, or simply enjoyed doing it. There was always some practical motive to it. For example, he never sang because he was compelled to, he sang because it was how he preserved his history. He never went for runs because he enjoyed nature but because he needed to build stamina. There always had to be a logical reason to do something. The sole exception was when the boy got angry and his fists flew because he was too angry to see reason. Very much like England, much to France's displeasure. He had been hoping Ireland would be more like Scotland. If Ireland had another side to him, France had not seen it.

Or rather, Ireland had not allowed him to see it. For someone who claimed to be a bard of this and a shanachie of that he seemed very reluctant to actually perform anything. France had been living with the boy for a year and he always stopped singing or chattering to himself as soon as the other nation walked in the room. Ireland also had the annoying habit of writing things down while glaring threateningly around the room for anyone foolish enough to try to read over his shoulder. If the boy felt upset or lonely he would go off on his own. France had only seen him cry once, after their short lived kiss. It bothered France a little. There was usually a reason someone cried after being touched or kissed and it was never a pleasant one. Then again, Ireland seemed quite young, and did not leave his island much, so it was entirely possible that he had been overwhelmed and homesick. Whatever the case, the boy was emotionally stifled, something France did not approve of. It was unattractive and unhealthy.

Not that he himself had been much better lately. Since Canada had been taken, France had been in a foul mood. He could not afford to show his displeasure in front of the government who had chosen to keep other colonies and hand over his dear Canada to the British. Hopefully though Scotland and that other one, that one with the strange grin, would be able to help Canada. France would sometimes stay awake at night wondering if the boy had succumbed to English ways or if he still stubbornly clung to his French heritage. Did Canada still speak French? Was he allowed to practice French laws and customs? France shook his head slightly and laid his head back down on the pillow. He missed his little colony, though he could not always remember his name, he always remembered the sweet little boy who followed him faithfully and showed him the wonders of the new world.

Now he was stuck with a prudish redhead who had a fondness for catechism and whiskey. France had briefly contemplated trading Ireland for Canada, but he had given his word to Ireland. Though if the Irish Brigades proved useless he might just have to renegotiate their arrangements. If only Ireland was a little warmer and a little more receptive to France's affections. Despite all of the flaws he had picked up from his older English brother, Ireland was a very pretty young man. And of course France had not forgotten the adorable naivety Ireland had displayed during their kiss. He would not mind if the boy ran back in, terrified, desperate to cling to someone. Then France would pull the young, naïve boy close looking deeply into his green eyes and-

"France wake up!" he yelled, smacking France over the head with the long barrel of his rifle.

"Irlande I told you-"

"The English are attacking!" Ireland growled, "So are the bloody Dutch and Danes, and just for shits and giggles they let the Scots and the Welsh tag along! Get up already!"

"Merde…" hissed France, hauling himself out of bed.

* * *

_W00t~ Shit is happening! Yeah, I know like, a freaking year has passed since the Flight of the Wild Geese and the Battle of Steenkerque, but, it was filler. Canada trading hands from French to British happened before The Flight, so I couldn't even write about that. Whimsical, bloody filler, there was no way around it so onto plot, guts and gore~ _

_Battle of Steenkerque...I'll probably go more in depth with it in my notes in the next chapter, but for now, the battle started at 5am with a surprise attack by the combined forces of the English, Scottish, Danes and Dutch. Chances were there were Welsh troops, who at the time were England's cannon fodder of choice. The French troops were caught off guard. 5 on 2 seems sort of unfair though. Hopefully another foreign regiment in the French army can back them up. Here's a hint: *BLAM* "Get off my lawn!"_

_And before someone says NETHERLANDS WASN'T A VIKING, I have a Dutch friend who says THE DUTCH WERE VIKINGS. I'm not entierly sure of the fact myself, but I'm going to go with my friend on this one. Just for her, Netherlands was a Viking. Plus it makes the past history of him and the British Isles Siblings more interesting, no? _

_Fun facts. The King Scotland was hinting at was Edward II, nobody liked him, or at least Mel Gibson said so. Scotland and France do have a history going back quite a ways called 'The Auld Alliance.' The reason he is fighting France now is that William of Orange, King of England, is also King of Scotland, so, he sort of has to be there. _

_Please Review? Please? Feedback...want...*passes out from lack of feedback*_


	3. Chair a Cannon

Chair a Cannon

"Hurry up! Do you expect me to hold the line myself against five of them!" yelled Ireland.

"Of course, I'm not properly dressed yet," said France from inside the tent.

Wales joined the ex Vikings in a laugh while Scotland rolled his eyes. He had after all been on the receiving end of France's antics before. England could only glower. How dare France leave a nervous girl to hold her own against five? It was outrageous and completely unacceptable! Even if France thought Ireland was a boy, a five on one fight, especially against a small island nation like Ireland was ludicrous. He was also getting very impatient. Battle etiquette required for England to wait to attack until France had at least arrived on the field, but the longer the Frenchman left his sister alone to defend the front line the more England wanted to wring his neck. Sometimes he wondered if they would be better off just ambushing, or even fighting alongside their armies, throwing any sense of combat etiquette to the wind. The part of England that desperately clung to the rules just wanted to consider springing surprise attacks on France in the evening when hopefully he would be out of bed.

"Why are you even here Ireland, your country is not directly involved, you really have no right to be here," noted England coldly.

"I'm here because you forgot I registered in the Jacobite army, eejit," huffed Ireland, "Besides, Switzerland hires himself out, why can't I?"

"Because, you do realize that with you here, I can do anything I want with your island," explained England.

"Right, because being Irish and Catholic you've left me with so much political power to oppose you," said Ireland rolling her eyes before glowering darkly, "We made our treaty. Go back on it and you'll just be making an asshole of yourself."

Obviously Ireland was not going to see reason. England had hoped she would. He had hoped that she would be sick with some horrible virus, or get homesick as Ireland was wont to do, or even horribly injured instead of going through with this insanity. England knew that she would not back out of her scheme so easily, not after so short a time as a year. Ireland was too stubborn for that. The only way she would go back to the British Isles at this point was if she was incapacitated, restrained and dragged back against her will, and England had more than half a mind to do just that. Perhaps when they had been ignorant little savages romping about her behaviour might have been well and good, but in this day and age it just made Ireland look bad. There were ways that women behaved if they wanted to be respected. In a different time his sister's brutish ways might have been lauded, but now was not that time. Times had changed, and she needed to learn that before she completely demolished her reputation.

France finally emerged from the tent and looked at the field where the 'nations' would have their skirmish. It was a fairly wooded area, not horribly dense with trees, but there was enough foliage to use for cover if needed. The ground was slightly sloped, with the advantage of the higher ground on France's side. He had Ireland with him, though he had never seen firsthand if he would be of any use in battle. There was another unit fairly close by that would come to their aid, but not for quite some time. He and Ireland would have to hold the five opponents for as long as possible until he arrived to back them up. In the mean time, France felt sure he could take at least one or two of them out, provided Ireland could provide adequate cover fire. Then again, if Ireland was anything like Scotland his first instinct would likely be to make a suicidal charge. The Celts, as France understood it through his contact with Scotland, had a sort of predisposition to go out in blazes of glory, which simply would not do.

He looked over at England, who was obviously not pleased, but all France could think was that it served him right. Any displeasure, disgust, outrage or pain England felt he deserved tenfold in France's opinion. Jeanne and Canada were only the tip of the iceberg that made France's blood run cold with hatred. He wanted England out of Canadian territory, every little lapse into English language his little colony made filled France with anger. There was so much more beneath it all that he could not begin to describe. But for now, he had Ireland, England's precious little brother. For a brief moment he entertained the idea of abusing her in some way, slapping him across the face perhaps. It would serve England right to watch, and to be powerless, just as he had to watched Jeanne burn. But why strike Ireland? Especially when a kiss or gentle touch would displease England even more.

France put his gloved hand on Ireland's firm shoulder. He was always slightly surprised at the sturdiness of Ireland's frame despite his small stature. Scotland looked across the field at them almost apologetically and France nodded at him understandingly. He knew that Scotland did not want this, and that if he himself had been in Scotland's position he would have also been made to obey his boss despite his own personal interests. As nations they really did need to be prepared to fight brothers and even lovers if their bosses were so inclined. Lovers, in the case of France and Scotland. Feeling flirtatious, France blew the big man a kiss that made England turn visibly green and Ireland turn in slight confusion.

"So, what's the plan? How many should I take?" asked Ireland frankly.

"All of them," whispered France, "Don't think about it in terms of a duel. We're holding a line here, the idea is to make sure the five of them cannot advance. We'll need to co-operate, none of this going out in a blaze of glory or duelling like you're used to."

"Stop this whispering nonsense," snapped England, "France I demand you relinquish Ireland. And while you're at it, get your froggy ass out of American territory, he's mine."

France tilted his head back and arrogantly looked down his nose at England, "I might say the same about Canadian territory. I'm not sure I like you hanging around Acadia. As for your brother, no. I grow very tired of you thinking you can take what's mine from me."

"So…Ireland's gay with France. Suddenly the world makes a lot more sense," mused Wales.

"Shut up Wales!" hissed England, "You know it's entirely untrue!"

"I would not say so…" hummed France almost seductively, trailing his finger along Ireland's crescent moon tattoo, making the boy blush. France had seen with other nations that a curious marking or a stray lock of hair was often a sensitive area, and the principle seemed to apply to the boy. "Irlande and I have become very close."

"Isn't Ireland manly? Most definitely more manly than England," Wales continued, his grin growing bigger by the second as he chuckled.

"If you're done, can we get on with it?" asked Denmark impatiently, "I hate standing around while you five have your family reunion and bitch-fest. I want to chop things up already!"

"One moment," said England, "France I'm giving you one last chance to release Ireland, who isn't involved in any way, and really ought to be home."

Ireland stuck out her tongue and took aim at her brother. France wondered briefly why England would want Ireland at home but brushed the comment off, snaking his hand around Ireland's waist. "I believe I said no. I think it's high time you learn what it's like to have someone taken from you rather than doing the taking. Then perhaps…you might…perhaps…Irlande? Have you always had an hourglass waist?"

France looked down slowly. He had thought when he had placed his hand on the 'boy's' waist that it would immediately meet his outline. Rather, it sank into the layers of thick uniform cloth until it rested on what was undeniably a very distinct curve in 'his' waist. He ran his hand along it experimentally a few more times from Ireland's ribcage to 'his' hip as Ireland looked up at France very much unsure of what to say. If she admitted to being a girl she might be sent home, but she could not exactly deny being a girl now that France had discovered that she did in fact have a womanish body. It was Wales who piped up. "Yep, she's had that figure since the fourteenth century, Ireland's real manly like that."

"Shut up Cymru!" yelled Ireland, now aiming at her other more talkative brother.

"Take this…" France murmured, looking a little flustered, passing Ireland a pair of flintlock pistols, "You stay in front, and cover me as long as you can. If you can handle that until backup arrives, you can stay. It doesn't matter if you're a man or a woman, if you can't live up to my expectations; I have no use for you."

Ireland thrust the pistols in her belt, surprised at how well France was taking the fact that she was female. She had expected outrage, perhaps to be punished, but not for him to be more vexed and embarrassed than anything else. He was also, dare she say, accepting of the whole thing? That was something she had not been expecting. Her brother had always outright banned female presence on the battlefield as improper, feeling it was a man's duty to protect women. Ireland had never believed there would be a male nation that would be so quickly accepting of the whole idea. "I suppose this makes me food for the powder then?"

France drew his sword, a style of which Ireland had never seen before which he would later explain to be an epee de cour and stepped back, raising the blade skyward. "I prefer the term chair a canon myself. Now fire!"

"Fire!" England shouted to his allies.

Then all hell broke loose.

Ireland shot the two pistols at Scotland. Her larger brother was a deadly force to reckon with and she knew full well that she and possibly even France would not be able to stand up to him if he got much closer. She was fairly sure she struck him down, since he did not charge her immediately after. She had little time to think, and moments after he order was given she stopped thinking, completely blinded by pain. She felt fire shoot up her limbs and through her body and by some miracle managed to stay on her feet. She later found out France, who had been standing behind her held her up on her feet. She heard a musket firing behind her and saw one of the figures charging towards her stagger. She assumed it was Denmark.

Ireland shakily thrust the pistols in her belt as her vision blurred slightly. As she picked up her musket and fired again she noticed that the ground around her had become quite red as opposed to the pleasant green it had once been. The enemies rushing them did not falter, and Ireland cursed herself out loud realising she had missed. She would have no time to reload. She staggered back as she heard footsteps behind her fade off to her left and watched Netherlands and England make a sharp left turn. Wales pulled back and reloaded. Very quickly. More quickly than Ireland had ever seen anyone reload a musket, smoothly and so professionally that she was almost mesmerized by it.

No, she could not watch. If she did that she would be shot. Besides, she had to protect France. If she stayed in front and covered him he would allow her to stay. Ireland tried to focus and move in the same direction the others had gone, but her limbs would not move the way she wanted them to. They were slow, sluggish and ridged. She also seemed to be stumbling a lot. She watched as she seemed to be watching things as if they were happening in another world, completely indifferent to them. Denmark raised his axe as he came closer to her.

Ireland gripped her long sword only to have her hand slip off the handle. Her hand was covered in her own blood, making it hard to grip the hilt. She managed to grip it and block as the Nordic nation swung down at her head with his massive axe. Ireland grunted with effort and her vision went white. She was losing too much blood and slowly losing her consciousness. Pain shot up her side as she saw Wales quickly reloading again. Denmark raised his axe. She remembered fighting Denmark, and remembered how he liked to swing wide, making his moves very predictable. However, even dodging predictable strikes was hard when her brother, who it seemed had become an expert musketeer and marksman, was shooting at her. It did not last long. Wales drew a blade of some sort and advanced on her as well.

Ireland shuddered as she blocked Denmark again and tried to keep her clouding eyes on Wales. The Nordic nation smiled broadly, enjoying the thrill of the fight, "Takes you back, huh Ireland? We haven't had this much fun since I trashed your monasteries."

Monasteries? She was…in a monastery? It was awfully green for a monastery. Protect France, protect the monastery, the Book of Kells, Wales advancing…Thoughts flooded her mind until she could not distinguish them. He mind was too exhausted. All she knew was something about monasteries, and Denmark attacking. Instinctively she lashed out with all her might, her mind reverting back to her eighth century childhood when Denmark had attacked her. She slashed wildly, screaming with blood bubbling up in her throat, only being kept on her feet by an ancient madness for battle. Then, suddenly Denmark was gone. Ireland staggered about, swinging her sword at the air, knowing that the enemy was still somewhere. Suddenly a hand grabbed her shoulder and she found herself whirled around to face the toothy grin of another mad Celt.

"Hey sis…"

* * *

France looked back over his shoulder. Miraculously, he had not been shot yet, though it seemed Ireland's world famous Irish luck had run out and was a ragged mess. That or it had magically transferred itself to France, who found himself having wonderful luck. Netherlands, who it seemed had been eager to fight him, was continuously getting in England's way, and France fully intended to keep it that way so he would not have to contend with both of them at the same time. England was infuriated, but Netherlands seemed to be enjoying himself. France frowned as it was all he could do to keep from having his limbs hacked off by the Dutchman. He had heard from Sweden and Finland that the man was more of a monster in battle than a human, but he had always thought it was an exaggeration. France dodged and almost managed to slice into Netherlands, only managing to cut into his uniform.

"Move! Move you Dutch oaf!" England yelled, unable to step around. France grinned slightly and began to actually move with England, making sure to keep Netherlands between them. France hoped this luck would keep up, and perhaps Netherlands might hit England when he swung his axe back at some point. Ireland seemed to be doing her job keeping the other two occupied, so perhaps he would be able to breathe easy. Then again, the last time he had seen her she had been a bloody pulp barely able to drag her own feet. Perhaps he ought to finish this more quickly.

At the same time though, France was not sure how he could make this quicker and not take a substantial about of damage. Netherland's had a longer weapon with more reach, which would normally not be a problem for France, but the man was incredibly fast and gave him little time to counter. France quickly took in his surroundings. He could use the foliage to his advantage to evade or trap the Dutchman, but that might leave him open to England's attacks. He also could not count on England keeping his temper for much longer. When England was angry, he was unpredictable, which never boded well for France when they fought, or anyone he cared about. France knew he would have to act soon.

But not as soon as England acted. Impatient to get to France and enraged that Netherlands kept getting in his way, England drew his own flintlock pistol and shot, barely missing Netherlands as well as France. Netherlands glared, "You nearly took my head off with that!"

"Would you just move you git!" yelled England, shoving his 'ally' aside. He should have never entered this alliance. It was frustrating when nobody would follow his directions when he clearly had the better plan and the better. Why would nobody listen to him? Why would nobody follow his orders? Not even his siblings would stay in line and do as they were told! He had given everyone directions before the battle. Why couldn't things go the way he wanted them to for once! He leaned close to Netherlands, "Just make him move left, I'll take care of the rest."

Netherlands had wanted to take on the Frenchman himself, but realized the Englishman would have none of that. Besides, the French bastard was remarkably quick, and very good at using his surroundings to his advantage. England had, admittedly, more experience with fighting France and knew what he was doing. Netherlands raised his awe and swung down as hard as he could making the Frenchman dodge to the left.

France did not stop there though, and whirled behind a large tree. He moved quickly, hoping to get behind Netherlands and strike the Dutchman down. France's eyes widened as he skidded to a halt, nearly impaling himself on a cutlass that had jutted out suddenly in his path. France stepped back, colliding with the Netherlands who had closed in from behind. England panted from fatigue and from the sensation of coming down from the high that came with combat. He grinned, France was trapped between the two of them. They had done it. France was theirs.

"Well, looks like you're finished frog," England announced with a grin, "Now would be a good time to surrender."

"I'm not finished!" said France defiantly, "Irlande is…"

"Sis is taking a little nap right now. I guess she just ran out of energy…or blood, could be either."

Wales emerged from the foliage with a bloodstained grin on his face. England looked at him, alarmed at the volume of blood that darkened his English red uniform. Wales wiped his face with the back of his hand and smoothed back his tawny hair, giggling slightly, "Sis just wasn't as fast as she used to be. Maybe because I shot her so much. Anyways, she was really easy to cut up."

"Where's Denmark?" asked Netherlands, involuntarily shrinking back at the sight of the mad Welshman.

"Oh, sis got him. She went crazy and sliced him up good," reported Wales, he tilted his bloodstained face to the side and looked at France with an almost coquettish expression drawing his own cutlass, "Now here comes a candle to light you to bed, and here comes a chopper to chop off your hea-"

England started as he heard an unfamiliar gunshot in the distance and Netherlands let out a yell. And staggered back. The large Dutchman glared and whirled around, looking for the sniper and tossing his axe aside in favour of grabbing his rifle. England closed in on France, intending to take his rival as a hostage when another shot rang out and Netherlands collapsed to his knees, blood welling up from a fresh wound in his thigh. Netherlands spied a red coat and blond hair before shooting wildly at the sniper. The sniper responded in kind by shooting Netherlands squarely in the chest.

France grinned, "It's good of you to finally arrive, Suisse. Any later and I might have docked your pay."

Switzerland slowly emerged from the foliage surveying the scene critically, "Any later and I don't think you would have lived to dock my pay."

England snarled, "You aren't the only one with a marksman. Wales, take care of him! Wales? Bloody hell what are you waiting…"

England trailed off and looked at his little brother, who, still grinning, was looking down at a long sword that was protruding awkwardly from his chest. He coughed, blood gurgling up in his throat and bubbling between his smiling lips to stain them with rouge. Trembling, Wales raised his hand and ran it along the blade as if trying to figure out if it was real or not. England stared horrified as he caught a glimpse of his sister, who as Wales had so nicely but it earlier was very much 'cut up'. Wales looked behind himself to see his sister, battle crazed with eyes clouded over with exhaustion, thoroughly covered in blood and cuts from head to toe and bleeding out rapidly. "Look English…Iwerddon woke up…"

The two siblings fell forward and collapsed to the forest floor as one being. The two were a tangled mess of bloody limbs and shredded red uniforms. England could only stare at them, collapsed in a heap. Scotland was missing, Denmark had been felled, Netherlands was struggling to get back up on his feet after taking a bullet to the chest. Switzerland looked over Ireland, "New guy?"

"New girl," corrected France with a nod, pointing his epee de cour at England, "Now what were you saying Angleterre? Ah oui…it is a good time to surrender, no?"

* * *

_Nooooooootes~_

_Continuing from the last chapter, the battle of Steenkerque started at about 5am, August 3rd, 1692 with a surprise attack by the English, Dutch, Danes and Scots on the French. Well, as 'surprising' as attacks could be back then. The battle was not allowed to start until the generals of both sides had taken the field and shouted clever one liners at each other. Anyways, the day was saved by the Swiss battalions. The English blamed their loss on the Dutch, whose cavalry had advanced and gotten in the way of the advancing English infantry. In the aftermath, five English regiments were decimated, and the French invented a new way of wearing their cravats. Steinkirks were loosely worn cravats that came into style after the battle of Steenkerque, supposedly because the surprise attack left French troops with little time to put them on properly. _

_There were heavy casualties on both sides, about 8000 men killed or wounded on both sides. When the allied forces retreated the French were too exhasted to persue...can you blame them?_

_As for why England and France don't do much, well, in those days generals typically stayed back and let their units duke it out. I hope they still seemed badass though._

_Cymru = Wales. The name 'Wales' is 'foreign' in Anglo-Saxon. Ireland was being nice and calling her brother by his Welsh name._

_Iwerddon = Ireland_

_Also, REVIEW! I use the stats page, I know people are reading, so for the love of crap, REVIEW!_


	4. Sarsfield, Scotland and Darien

Sarsfield, Scotland and Darien

The first thing Ireland saw when she recovered was the tan coloured canopy of a military issued tent. She did not recognize it at first, but when her vision came into focus she realized that she was in a tent. She was also quite cold, stiff, and in a great deal of pain. She shifted this way and that, trying to make herself comfortable. Suddenly it came to her attention that cold metal was systematically nipping its way up her arm, tugging flesh parted by various cuts back together. Ireland grimaced. She hated stitches.

More of her vision came into focus and she saw a young blond man working on her arm intently. He had a serious face framed by shaggy locks and wore a red uniform, though it was quite different from that of the Irish Brigade. He was likely the 'other unit' that France had mentioned earlier. Ireland could not remember much of the battle, aside from being shot, multiple times, fighting with Denmark, and then being at Wales' mercy for quite some time. She could not remember anything after that, as hard as she tried. Had the blond man arrived in time to help when she had fallen? Where was France anyhow? Ireland's eyes traveled down, to her embarrassment finding that she was scantily clad in a pair of new trousers and a breast band.

"Stop moving, or I'll sew up the wrong spot," warned the blond man harshly, "I'll help you into your shirt later."

"D-did we win…?" Ireland croaked.

"Yes, but the men were too tired to pursue when the enemy retreated, and you were sort of bleeding everywhere," grunted the man, still fixed on his work. Ireland bit her lip as the man finished stitching and cut the thread. Carefully he put his instruments away in a worn looking case that looked like it would need to be replaced soon. Casually he took a small bowl and thrust it under Ireland's nose. Looking down she found a quartet of metal balls soaking in water, tinted slightly red. "Most people like to keep the bullets as souvenirs, if they survive. Want them?"

"Yes… but- ," Ireland croaked again, "Can I have my shirt now?"

The man propped her up roughly before retrieving her red uniform coat, "France is pretty pissed by the way. He doesn't like being lied to."

Ireland took her turn to roll her eyes as she was painfully helped into her jacket. She knew that revealing her gender after hiding it for almost a year would provoke a reaction, and she knew it would not be a positive one. She had been pleasantly surprised that France did not mind having a girl fight beside him, especially when contrasted with her brother who firmly believed that men ought to protect women. Though if France was angry with her than his opinion might change.

"Thanks…uh…?" she said as the man buttoned her coat, unsure of what to call him.

"Switzerland," grunted the man.

Switzerland picked up his kit and left the tent calling for to 'Francis' saying something along the lines of, 'the stupid Celt woke up.' Almost immediately, France burst into the tent, looking down at Ireland furiously. He had removed his light blue jacket and changed his shirt, though his cravat had been re-tied as messily as he had tied it before the battle. France glared at her for a moment, collecting his thoughts while trying to look a little less angry. He did not want word getting around the camp that he had lost his temper with the representation of Ireland and one of the leaders of the Irish Brigade while 'he' was helpless and bedridden.

"Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was?" asked France finally, "I made a fool of myself in front of the Augsburg League."

"We won, does it matter?" asked Ireland. As long as England suffered defeat and she was not made a scullery maid, Ireland honestly did not care if France was embarrassed or not.

"It does," seethed France, taking care not to raise his voice, "You don't seem to know your place here young _lady._ You might be a nation like myself, but you are not my peer, and you are certainly not my equal. If you embarrass me, it _should_ matter to you, seeing as you're my subordinate, I can send you right back to your little backwater country if you displease me."

Ireland stiffened as her face reddened with anger with each sentence. The last straw was France referring to her island as 'backwater.' Ireland was not a backwater country. Her face contorted as an audible snarl escaped her lips.

"Don't make that face," ordered France, "We've known of each other for well over a millennium, and you've never once corrected me. Why? I can understand lying to your men to avoid complications, but why not correct me? Do you really think that lowly of me or is that polite by your primitive Irish standards?"

"Because you're a pervert. And if you insult my island again, I'll cut off your lips and force you to eat them raw," growled Ireland.

France felt the corner of his eye begin to twitch with irritation. He did not want it getting out among the men that he had let some Irish barbarian get the better of him, but he also did not want the Irish Brigade finding out he had lost his temper with the 'boy' who represented their country. He ground his teeth as he carefully chose his words and tried to channel his anger. "Perhaps you did not hear me the first time. I can deport you if you displease me. Did you never once think that my most famous general was a woman, and that maybe, just maybe I might be able to offer assistance?"

Ireland started. How could she forget? How could she have possibly forgotten one of the most famous woman in all of Europe, and a potential saint as well? She sank back, feeling like an idiot. She had never considered that France might try to help her. She had been told so many stories about France's depravity that it had never occurred to her that he would even be willing to help her. France stared down at her contemptuously as Ireland tried to make herself invisible. France did not stop glaring, "So why didn't you tell me?"

Ireland looked away sheepishly, "It's just safer that way…and…I like it."

France rolled his eyes at the response, though he would have to admit it was the first time he had ever heard a girl confess that she liked to be mistaken for a young boy. Most would have been horribly offended, and likely proceed to stuff the bosom of their dresses to make sure nobody made the same mistake twice. At the same time he could understand the functionality of acting and dressing like a man in a military setting. Jeanne had always kept her hair short and had worn armour for the practicality of it. To wear a dress, no armour and have loose hair flying in a battle was not only foolish for any soldier, but it would immediately make her a target. She had been mistaken for a boy once or twice, but France could not recall if Jeanne had ever been pleased with it. She had never told him, and now he would never know. Memories of Jeanne sobered him slightly as he sat on Ireland's cot.

"For the time being, I'm not deporting you. You'll stay, and you'll fight. You've proved that you can be useful. However, I'm afraid I will have to order you to take leave for a few months, at least, until you fully recover," explained France, "And I'm going to want an apology."

Ireland bit her lip. Apologies were not something she was terribly good at, and she rarely made them. Especially over something so silly too. She fidgeted and winced from pain from all her wounds as she shifted uncertainly and tried to make the words come out of her mouth. France watched her shift uncomfortably. Was an apology really so hard for her? Feeling in a slightly better mood, France decided it was time to do one of the things he did best: tease.

"I'll accept a kiss instead if you're so opposed to a verbal apology," he said nonchalantly.

Ireland was not sure which would be worse as France leaned in, ready to accept either. Grimacing from pain and disgust Ireland leaned up slightly. Which would be worse? Both a kiss and an apology would be horrible wounds to her pride, but she was having a hard time choosing the lesser of two evils. All it would take to make him stop would be for Ireland to blurt out the words 'I'm sorry' quickly. Typically she would have kicked anyone who put her in this position, but her legs were in absolute agony, as were her arms. She gulped as France closed his eyes and moved his lips mere millimetres from hers, hovering for a moment before whispering sweetly:

"Rain-check."

The red haired nation looked at him confusedly. France chuckled lightly and rose to his feet, "I'd rather get that kiss when you aren't so dishevelled. Your hair's a mess, you're covered in cuts, stitches and bandages, and you smell like a chamber pot."

Ireland looked at France, horrified at the prospect. France could only try not to laugh. Ireland's reaction was quite fun, and if France could force that kiss out of her in front of England, then it was all for the better. Ireland was not, after all, completely ugly. There was some potential under the layers of freckles and tangles. France thought of bringing out that potential, and the kiss, all in front of England. He smirked as a wonderful idea occurred to him. England was going to hate him, and it was going to be wonderful.

Ireland had recovered from her little daze of shock and was now as furious as France had been when he arrived, "You…you…That's why I didn't tell you! Bloody pervert! You'll burn in the-!"

"Second circle of hell, I've heard. Stop screaming or you'll reopen your woun-"

France jumped back. He had just raised the tent flap and was about to step out when he nearly ran directly into a tall man dressed as an officer. He was not very young, but not an old man either, possibly in his thirties. He had wide, searching brown eyes a prominent nose and very full lips. Thick brown hair which seemed to be greying already fell in curls around his shoulders and bounced as he stepped back, apologizing quickly for nearly running into France in French. France immediately recognized the rough Irish accent that butchered his language.

"Captain Sarsfield!"

France hardly recognized Ireland's voice as she called out cheerfully. This was actually the first time he had heard her sounding genuinely cheerful. The man, this Sarsfield, bowed deeply to France, as he ought to, before stepping around him into the tent. Sarsfield, the name sounded familiar. Any chance she had of a hint from Ireland was gone however as she immediately began chattering away with the man in what France had to assume was Irish. If it was English, it was not a dialect he had ever heard before. Sarsfield…France sighed to himself. It would bother him all day if he did not ask who the man was.

"Who is he again?" demanded France, not caring if he was interrupting.

"Only the man who had my back at Limerick," said Ireland, rolling her eyes, "He's Captain Patrick Sarsfield, Grandson of Rory O'Moore, Earl of Lucan, and my most trusted officer."

"Though I don't think we were supposed to charge into the enemy by ourselves," mused Sarsfield.

"Nah, we saved quite a few of the infantry men's asses. We're good. But I'm starting to dislike being shot at…" grumbled Ireland.

The man nodded pleasantly in agreement and France sighed again. He might have known, an Irishman who looked and sounded as crazy as Ireland was herself. France might have been annoyed with the fact that he was surrounded by insane Irishmen and stingy Swiss snipers, if they were not so useful. Rolling his eyes before taking a curious last look at the two, France left them to do whatever it was Irishmen did when they were not fighting, drinking or praying. He really did not care what it was.

For the moment, France needed to clear his head and plan. They had fended off the League, but they had lost eight thousand men. There were also expenses to add to the growing price this war was accumulating. They would have to buy more ammunition, replace any damaged or destroyed equipment, likely start another recruitment campaign. France sighed. He always hated recruiting fresh, beautiful young men, knowing full well that they would be slaughtered in some foreign field. He rubbed his temples and paced around the outskirts of the camp, purposely avoiding anyone.

Finding a pleasant spot away from most of the noise, France sat down gingerly on the grass at the edge of the woods, careful not to stain or wrinkle his clothes. Looking up at the clear sky, it was hard to tell that a total of sixteen thousand had lost their lives only yesterday. It seemed there was no such thing as pathetic fallacy in reality, the heavens impartial to the affairs of humans. France watched the clouds being shepherded by the wind across the sky as he tried to tally figures in his head for his report. He could speak with an officer or clerk about this, but he did not feel like speaking with them. Really he did not feel like doing a report either. Normally he would seek solace with a lover, but none of his soldiers or officers had particularly caught his eye. Or they had caught his eye and promptly bored France to tears. Quickly, thoughts of a different kind of figure crept into his mind and displaced his calculations. What he would not give for a tall, dark, handsome lover with a sardonic smile to celebrate his victory with. Ireland and Switzerland would have been candidates, and both did desperately need to 'relieve their tensions' in France's opinion. But Ireland was incapacitated and Switzerland was likely assisting medics or trying to get a raise.

France laid back and flung an arm over his eyes. He was still quite tired. With the battle, meetings with his officers, and short lived drama with Ireland, France felt he more than deserved a break. Why did 'nations' have to fight anyhow? They had armies for that. France would have much rather been serving at court. He preferred the drama, intrigue and delicate tightrope walk of politics than fighting physical battles. Perhaps he would have to have a word with his boss and see if he could make his position at court a more permanent one. Or perhaps he could look into overseas affairs. France smiled softly to himself. If he could be put in charge of the colonies in the 'New World' he would not complain at all. If he could spend his days playing with his Canada and trying to coax America to become a French colony, then that would be something akin to heaven.

The Frenchman grunted indignantly as someone prodded his side. Likely someone sent to find and bring him to yet another depressing meeting to deal with the aftermath of the battle. France waved the offender away, "Go away, I'm sure you don't need me for whatever it is."

France was surprised when he was prodded again, rather than hearing an apology. "I said go away," France repeated more firmly.

When the person prodded him again France all but reached for his epee de cour. He swung his arm away from his face hoping to strike the man and tried to get up, but soon found his arm thrust to the ground and his body pinned. France's eyes fluttered open as he stared up at a large man with thick brown curls, a slightly scruffy face and a devilish grin. Green eyes framed by thick brows gazed back at him approvingly, looking over France's figure in a completely unabashed way. "Looking good France…still want me to go away?"

"Ecosse…you're…how did…you're hurt!" France exclaimed, his hands immediately shooting up and pushing cloth aside to look at a pair of bullet wounds, "You fool! Why didn't you get this looked at? Come to think of it, why aren't you with Angleterre? You…you didn't wait here all night did you!"

"I did," said Scotland casually, "I wanted to see you. And it's only two little bullets, and they didn't hit anything vital either, sis is a terrible shot."

"That is completely beside the point!" France yelled, "What if this had gotten infected? Do you think I would be happy if you got hurt doing something as stupid as hiding out near an enemy camp with two gaping chest wounds to see me?"

"Please don't remind me we're enemies," Scotland grumbled, his expression hardening slightly, "I'm still mad at William for getting me into this. Look, can't you just be happy to see me? I am risking my life to see you here."

"I will not be happy with this! Look at all the blood!" France continued to rant, "Get off me! I'll go get Suisse and-"

Scotland firmly pressed his mouth to France's to shut him up. France struggled for a moment, determined to hold out against the assault and give Scotland a piece of his mind, but caved sooner than he intended to. He had missed Scotland terribly, and needed to relieve post battle urges. IAfter dealing in death and fighting, men and women alike often had the urge to make love. France smiled into the kiss. Scotland had actually surprised France after their first battle together by throwing the blond nation over his shoulder and dragging him off. France had been, at that point, well accustomed to being wooed, or wooing, with sweet, ritualized courtship and love making. He had not been prepared to be carried off and ravished by a Scotsman. Not that he had not enjoyed it immensely…

The two nations parted for oxygen's sake and panted lightly. "Now," said Scotland, "Are you going to let me finish?"

France nodded and smiled slightly, "Only if you kiss me again."

Scotland leaned down and kissed his old ally again as hard as he could and France thought for a moment that the sheer force of the kiss might drive him into the ground. His hands reached up and his fingers tangled themselves in brown curls that were in need of a wash, but still soft to the touch. France gasped and hummed into Scotland's lips as a large hand rubbed his side gently, starkly contrasting the forceful kiss.

Scotland pulled back reluctantly, "Now?"

"If you must," said France, feigning nonchalance and smoothing down his blond hair, "Though I'd still rather get someone to look at those wounds."

"I told you I'll be fine," insisted Scotland, "I wanted you to be the first to know…I'm going to have a colony."

France started and stared up at the Scotsman. A colony? Would Scotland be able to afford a colony and a war? Scotland was very good with finances and likely thought it all through. It was a shock though. It was the first time France had heard of Scotland venturing into the Imperialist business. The Scotsman had of course helped England set up colonies, but France had never heard of Scotland taking any interest in having a colony of his own. "You…are?"

"I haven't told anyone yet, not even my boss or England…I know they'll be opposed to it, the economy being what it is and this bloody war…but I met him and…I fell in love with him," explained Scotland softly.

France recognised the look in Scotland's eyes. The deep parental love that was often in his own eyes when he thought of his own little Canada. The way his face seemed to soften with the wistful, contemplative expression. France pulled Scotland down into an embrace, "I'm so happy for you my old friend…does your future colony have a name?"

"Darién," said Scotland, kissing France's forehead, "I couldn't wait to tell you. It'll be a few years before settlements can be set up, but…I got excited and had to tell someone. I can't explain it…"

"I understand perfectly," said France, "I have a little one of my own, remember? I hope you'll be able to establish him soon, I would love to meet him…but in the mean time, please let me have someone look at those wounds you stubborn fool."

"I can't exactly walk into your camp though," shrugged the Scot, "Besides, England will be looking for me."

"I could take you prisoner…" suggested France, winking at his lover.

Scotland let out a loud laugh before coughing slightly from the chest pains his laughter caused, "Any other day, I would love to be your prisoner, but I need to get back to work on the Darien Scheme. Also, I've been working on improving these bloody muskets…they're terrible. Too heavy, too cumbersome, take too long to load…though when I've tested the preliminary designs and if they're satisfactory, I'll show you the work in progress."

France smiled slightly. Looking at Scotland's face and build, one would never expect him to speak that way. But France liked it. Scotland never ceased to surprise him, and was one of his favourite lovers. He wished Scotland would stay, it was horribly dull without him. That and all work with no play made France horribly irritable, "I'd still rather take you prisoner…"

"I know," said Scotland, pecking France lightly on the lips, "I'll make it up to you somehow…" Scotland broke off as an idea occurred to him, "Maybe revenge-sex all over England's house when this war business is over? I've got a spare key to his back door."

"Deal," said France, nearly bursting out laughing at the thought. He could almost imagine England coming home, in his mind's eye France saw England's jaw drop and his eyes bulge at the mess he and Scotland would no doubt leave in their wake. France helped Scotland to his feet, now in much better spirits, but he felt the mood slowly start to leave him. He wanted Scotland to stay, if only just a little longer. "Do you really have to go…can't I trade you for Ireland? Siblings can trade places right?"

Scotland blinked, "I don't think having siblings works that way. But when you see sis again…tell her I'm embarrassed to call someone with such shoddy aim my sister."

"You're more upset she nearly missed…" sighed France, "Your family is insane."

"And proud of it…" replied Scotland, "I'll try to see you again soon."

"You better," pouted France, "Your sister's no fun."

Scotland made his way off to the woods and smiled over his shoulder, "I'm sure if anyone can turn her around it's you. I'll see you later France…"

"Bye…" sighed France, watching Scotland's form disappear into the foliage.

* * *

Ireland attempted to salute as France walked back into the tent. Sarsfield took her arm and painfully raised it to the correct height as France stared at the two. There was a mess of papers and maps on the bed, tell tale signs that the two had been hard at work with plans and reports. France stared at Ireland with a distinct look of dissatisfaction and disappointment. She exchanged a look with her officer before looking back at France hesitantly. "Um…can I help you?"

"Yes, grow a beard so you'll look more like Scotland, and I can swap you for him," pouted France, looking like a lovesick little girl.

"Huh?"

* * *

_104 hits. I guess that's pretty good for a long story with lots of OCs. Thank you to everyone who's read this story so far. And please...review? I really do want to know what people think. _

_Only a few important notes this time. The Darien Scheme was Scotland's attempt to create a settlement in what would oneday be Panama. Scotland did have one other colony before this in (you guessed it) Nova Scotia, which is Latin for New Scotland. Nova Scotia was actually settled by the French first, then the Scots settled it, then the Scots were forced to give it back to the French. It's complicated...Scotland also had settlements in Cape Breton and New Jersey, and in Carolina. Darien is the most well known of Scottish colonial attempts, so I'm focusing on those. It also lets France and England duke it out over custody of the North America Brothers. _

_Patrick Sarsfield is a guy you can't talk about the Wild Geese without mentioning. One of the most famous of the Wild Geese, he showed extraordinary courage in the Williamite Wars and was quick to uphold the honour of Ireland and his companions. He even fought in duels over it. Because he had an indominable spirit and was so quick to jump into a fray to protect others, it was thought that he had no head for military command. Interestingly, he is the grandson of Rory O'Moore, who organized the Irish Rebellion of 1641. He also gets mentioned in the song 'Jackets Green' about the Seige of Limerick, The Flight of the Wild Geese, and revenge against the English. _

_REVIEW~~~~~~~~~~~_


	5. Penal Law

Penal Law

Wales woke up to find himself not in a battlefield, or in a field of any sort for that matter. Tawny eyes peered through a layer of tawny hair, which to his surprise had been washed, and found that he was in his room. The one in England's house of course. With Scotland and Ireland rebelling every two minutes England had all but put a collar and leash on Wales to keep him from doing the same. Wales found himself neatly tucked into his bed, his wounds cleaned and carefully bandaged, clothes changed and everything. Whoever his nurse had been, he or she certainly had been attentive. He kicked off the sheets and quilt before carefully getting to his feet. He wobbled slightly, clinging to the bedpost as he recovered his balance. For a moment he wondered how long he had been unconscious. Certainly long enough to get from Steenkerque to London, so that would put his estimate at a week or so.

His thoughts then went to Ireland. She had stabbed him right through a fairly vital region, which was not very nice. Those always took a long time to heal, so she had really not been playing fair, especially when all he did was cut her up and make her bleed a little. He would have to have a word with her about that. Wales also wondered about Scotland. He firmly refused to believe his brother had been beaten by only being shot twice. Twice! It usually took more than that to slow down any nation, depending on where the wounds were. Naturally, if one was shot in the legs, one could not run very fast. Wales pondered briefly. Scotland had probably run off in the confusion. As a nation it was irresponsible, but as an individual, Scotland did not want to fight France. Wales unfortunately could not sympathise. Since England had taken charge, Wales had not seen any other nations, apart from his siblings, outside a battle setting, so the concept of having an emotionally intimate connection with another nation was quite lost on him.

Wales went to the window and pulled back the blinds, discovering to his surprise an unfamiliar horse outside large manor where he and England lived. Wales squinted slightly. His eyesight had gotten much better along with his marksmanship and he could pick out a Dutch insignia on the saddle. Netherlands must be visiting. Wales ever present grin broadened. England liked it when Wales, along with Scotland and Ireland were out of sight and quiet, like good siblings, but Wales still liked to listen. Somehow he felt satisfied as he practiced his quips and watched and listed through a keyhole. In fact, he liked that Ireland and Scotland were gone. He got the keyhole all to himself, and the crack under the door if he felt so inclined, with nobody there to nag him asking 'what's happening now?'

Not that England had ever treated him bad personally. England would never do that to his siblings, he was really quite kind when he wanted to be. The worst Wales had ever received were slaps on the wrist, or sometimes in the face when he spoke Welsh, which was really not so bad. And England did always apologize if he lost his temper and hit Wales in the face. He never hit very hard either. His people however, were a completely different story. Wales had always found it a little strange. England was always so nice with his siblings and so unspeakably cruel with their people. It was always interesting to watch the change suddenly creep over him. Especially at executions, since executions were always interesting to watch to begin with. He remembered very plainly how England had personally beheaded a group of Irish rebels, then turned to Ireland herself and asked if she had been hurt, and assured her in the gentlest of voices that he had killed her people for her own good. Or when Llywen ap Gruffydd was lured to a meeting and murdered. England had personally gotten in on the killing before taking special care to see that Wales needs would be seen to.

Wales, making his way down the stairs slowly paused and thought back. That was the last time he had lost his temper, or cried, or even frowned. England had come to comfort him and explained that putting on a brave face would make everything better. So Wales did. He always put on a brave face after that. He could not frown if he tried. The pain would probably come back if he did. Though thinking of Llywen made his stomach suddenly feel empty inside. Wales shrugged. It must have been the sword wound in his chest. He was smiling, and nothing could make him feel that unbearable hurt again when he smiled. England was such a nice brother for sharing that secret with him. Wales made his way down the staircase of Kirkland Mannor and found he would not have to listen at the door. Netherlands and England were yelling very clearly.

"You're blaming me, because I was doing my job? What about your job? You get yourself distracted by that crazy monk, pardon, nun, your brother, who was supposed to back us up goes missing, and that smiling freak can't even take out one little girl!"

"At least I don't sleep with little girls," Wales giggled to himself. He crept towards the door to England's office, sitting outside on the floor quietly grinning childishly.

"Yes, and Denmark did a wonderful job pressing her berserk button and bringing up the raids," that was England's voice, angry, but still much calmer than Netherlands, "You can't blame this all on Wales."

"I'm not blaming Wales, I'm blaming you! You told me that you had those three under control!" Wales could imagine the snarl on the Dutchman's face, and he did not like it. It was quite scary in his imagination. Wales smiled broader.

"Sorry Dutchie, English lied. You'll find he does that a lot," said Wales to himself.

"Scotland is being reprimanded by King William as we speak, and I spoke to him myself earlier. I don't see what else you want me to do about him," snapped England.

"You have that 'Tower of London' thing, make use of it. A few weeks in there and you might find him less inclined to sympathise with the French," argued Netherlands.

Wales sniggered to himself. In the Kirkland residence, the 'Tower of London' did not refer to the torture chambers or prison, but a very specific vital region of England's. Wales giggled to himself at the delightful images that Netherlands had conjured. Besides, England would never send Scotland to the tower, never. He might hand pick a favourite of Scotland's to be tortured in his place, but he would never, ever punish Scotland like that. Though England got pretty close to doing it when he had to draw and quarter William Wallace. Wales had tried to tell Scotland the smiling secret, but Scotland had just held Wales and cried for some reason and asked what England had done to him. Wales never understood that. England had truly done nothing wrong to him, just to people in his country. And while Wales did not always like it, he could not really complain. Well, he could, but nobody ever listen to him, or Scotland, or Ireland.

"I'll think about it," said England. A blatant lie.

"And Ireland, what happened to you pacifying her? A year ago you said she would be living with you. Whatever happened to that?" persisted Netherlands, "How could you let her give you the slip?"

"Hm, you like it when little girls give you the slip…" mused Wales, "Oops, wrong slip, Dutchie sure is a pervert~."

"A…minor detail was overlooked, I assure you it won't happen again," said England.

"What I really don't understand is why you don't use her. Belgium fights and Hungary fights, they're both brutal. If you had kept Ireland on our side it could have been six to one at that battle," seethed Netherlands.

"You can keep your own opinions and let Belgium do as she pleases. However, I ask that you let me keep mine in regards to sisters. I don't know how it is in your country, but in mine, brothers do what they can to protect their sisters. Whether it's from war, slander, or even their own poor judgement," explained England, "Besides, giving an angry Irish Catholic a gun, and putting her in plain view of a group of Protestants she despises is like begging for friendly fire."

"Still, did you have to send her to France?" huffed Netherlands. Wales could practically hear his eyes rolling, "Scotland's being put in his place, but what about her? You can't touch her now. Seems like a lose-lose situation."

"No, Ireland made some very careless and stupid mistake," said England. Wales heard his boots pacing about the office, "She claimed that she had little to no political power. She was thinking too narrowly. Yes, she can't hold an official place in government, but she could have quite possibly led another uprising. That was her first mistake. Her second, was leaving Ireland along with the Brigade. She was so hot headed and determined to physically fight that she left her island wide open."

"I don't see how that helps the League," said Netherlands.

"Take a look at this please," requested England.

Wales gave an involuntary shiver when he heard papers russeling. He did not know why really. England would not hurt Ireland, or himself, or Scotland, so he had no reason to shudder, but he did anyhow. It was probably a draft or something. Wales crept closer and took a look under the door. Seeing only a set of boots and ankles he went to his preferred position at the keyhole. Wales peered in and saw Netherland's back, as he leaned over England's desk. England paced back and forth as Netherlands read whatever it was. Netherlands stopped and looked at England, "This is…"

"Penal Law," said England, "For every few years she's away, I'll enact one. And even if she refuses to come home after that they're specifically designed to weaken her. She won't be a problem."

Wales curiously listened in, wondering what kind of laws they were, but Netherlands interrupted, "Didn't you two have a treaty?"

"She isn't here to enforce the conditions is she?" asked England.

"No, she isn't English…you're so mean," pouted Wales.

"Really I'm more concerned about the Swiss. You don't suppose we have enough to bribe them away from France?" asked England.

"Not a chance. France pays them quite handsomely. I'd hate to think of the price tag that would come with a bribe like that," grumbled Netherlands, "Next time though, I'm going to get that little bastard for shooting me like that. I'm still limping…"

"Which leaves us with France…" said England quietly, "I don't understand it. He's practically taking on the world and is still managing to gain territory."

"Let him," said Netherlands, "France is only one country, against all of us. He's eventually going to run out of money, soldiers and resources if he keeps fighting like this. Unless he gets some allies on his side, or at least nations willing to provide support, he's screwed."

"Ha, that frog? Never, too proud, or stupid. He's probably enjoying his melodramatics as we speak, monologuing to himself about how he'll take over the world singlehandedly," laughed England, "Now if only we could bring this whole thing to a close more quickly."

Wales smiled and quivered outside the door. England was not playing fair, but at least Ireland was going to be a little weaker. That would teach her for stabbing him like that. But at the same time, England was cheating again. Wales went over the conflict in his head and found neither of them were really playing fair, nobody was. A long time ago they had all laid down rules, what they could, and could not do to each other in a fight. It seemed over time they had broken all of them, but England broke them the most. He missed those days sometimes, when 'the world' had just meant the two islands alone together, with a few trading partners. The world seemed to have gotten so much bigger, with less rules and more countries and colonies popping up all over the place.

Wales knocked on the door. Normally he would not knock on England's door, but he figured this was a good time to interrupt. The two seemed happy enough, and England would probably want to know that he was out of bed. He was surprised when he heard footsteps approach the door and even more surprised when England opened it himself. Normally England would order Wales or someone else to open the door.

"You're up," England noted dryly.

"Uh-huh, thanks for patching me up English, I could tell it was you. Your cooking is awful but your bedside manner is second to none," Wales chirped happily.

"Shut up Wales," grumbled England, "If you can move around, make yourself useful and go make some tea."

Wales grin widened. 'Shut up' meant that he had made a good point, and England had no proper rebuttal for it. He had learned that over the years. England flinched as Wales smiled more, which was odd, seeing as England was the one who taught him to smile in the first place. Come to think of it, lots of people did that when he smiled. People were strange.

"Oh, leek-breath is awake," grunted Netherlands, "No tea here, beer if you have it though."

"With or without drugs and underage women?" offered Wales with mock politeness, "Or perhaps I could interest you in a sheep?"

"Shut up Wales…" England grumbled more insistently, shooing Wales out of the room hurriedly while Netherlands reached for his axe.

* * *

"Why can't I come!" snapped Ireland.

"Because you're on crutches, idiot…" grumbled France, massaging his temples. He knew the stubborn streak that ran through her family was strong, but this was ridiculous. Captain Sarsfield himself had come to France nearly begging him to do something about Ireland, who, when France found her, was attempting to mount a horse with both of her arms in slings. It had been amusing to watch for a while, but he agreed with her officer, something had to be done.

"I should still be there, for moral, at the very least," insisted the red haired nation.

"Yes, because your graceful gimpiness will be so inspiring," replied France sarcastically, "I told you, no action, for a few months at least. If you push yourself too hard you'll burn out. I've been lenient with you, I've given you quite a few liberties, and tolerated your rude behaviour, is following orders really too much for you?"

"But-" Ireland began to protest.

"No buts. I give orders, you follow them. That's what I'm paying you to do, isn't it?" said France, grabbing Ireland by the back of her collar and thrusting her crutches at her, "Why don't I send you back to your island to recover? And if England tries to keep you there I can assure you that he won't. I've grown very tired of that man thinking he can take and keep things from me."

Ireland mulled it over, "I've missed home something terrible…"

"You have a month's leave, so by all means go. If you still haven't recovered, you can have another month, however…"

"However what…?" asked Ireland hesitantly.

"We've been quite casual with each other, and while I enjoy it sometimes, I've found that you're quite rude, and don't know when to act professional. Except when you're being malicious and mocking, or praying" noted France, "I'm going to be revoking that privilege until you can behave yourself."

"Oh, so you can show England what a nice submissive puppy I am?" asked Ireland sweetly.

"That's exactly what I mean, and no. There's a difference between being tough and being rude, and until you learn it, I forbid you to strike me, insult me or threaten me or use slang in my presence. Speak to like…like when you pray."

"What, you want me to talk to you like I do God?" asked Ireland.

"Maybe I would suggest someone else if there was anybody else you spoke politely to, without being sarcastic," huffed France, "Maybe in the age you grew up in talking the way you do was acceptable, but times change Irlande, that won't suffice anymore, you need to learn or you will never mature."

"…I suppose you'll be wanting me to replace my long sword too…" Ireland mumbled to herself.

"'Would you like me to replace my long sword as well, sir'," corrected France, "And yes, eventually. With everyone else switching to shorter and lighter swords so quickly you'll be disadvantaged."

"But that is my shorter sword, before that I used a claymore Scotland gave me," explained Ireland.

"I said no 'buts'," repeated France, his brow arching, staring at the curiosity that was Ireland, "Mon dieu you are a base, stubborn little thing aren't you?"

"The only people who have ever had a problem with how I talk or act was England. Changing him just…grates me, it's like letting him win," grumbled Ireland.

"Well, then perhaps you must either put up with it, or learn how to turn minding your manners into a slap in his face," ordered France, "Now, as of this moment, you are to speak to me as a superior, and for each failure…I'm adding a kiss to your debt."

Ireland paled, "You can't be bloody serious."

"That makes two," said France, smirking slightly.

"Wait! That's not fair!" yelped Ireland.

"Three," France counted.

"I swear you'll burn in the"-

"Second level of hell. And that makes four."

Ireland raised a bandaged arm to her mouth to stop herself from speaking again. France watched her for a moment, waiting to see if she would try to argue again. Finding she was being quiet, France continued.

"Good, now, off with you. Tell one of my officers that Francis Bonnefoy sent you, and ask them, nicely, to schedule your return to Ireland," instructed France.

Ireland bit her lip and her face contorted, like she was actually straining with concentration to speak a foreign language, "Ca- If I could have- If I may speak s-sir."

France looked at her inquisitively, "You may."

"If I…I mean should I go back to Ireland, and England were to catch wind, I mean find out if I were there, it might cause trouble for my people. There's- There is a treaty in place that protects their rights while I'm- I am gone, but if things were to get complicated there, and you did become involved…sir…it might open up a front in my country. And really, er, I would rather keep this war out of my land, since…from what I've- I have heard in reports, it is still recovering from the Williamite Wars," Ireland struggled to get out, constantly biting her tongue and correcting herself, "So…if I could stay in France sir…as per the agreement in the treaty…p-…pl-….please…."

France grinned and gave her a light applause causing Ireland to curl her fists and turn red, "You see Irlande, I knew you could do it. And yes, you may stay at Saint German Place with your officer's families. All I ask is that you recover quickly."

Ireland grumbled what was no doubt an Irish profanity under her breath.

"Five," sighed France, patting the redhead in front of him, "Really Irlande if you wanted to make out with me you should have said so instead of putting us both through this."

"Then by your leave sir I shall get back to my cot to get well and grow a beard so you can trade me for Scotland," countered Ireland, "And when you see him, you can tell him my aim is fine!"

"You have my leave…but you're up to nine for that outburst."

"Fuck!"

"Ten…" France sniggered to himself before walking off to find Switzerland, leaving Ireland flustered in his wake.

* * *

Wales returned to England's office with a tray carrying a tea pot, with a matching cup and saucer that contrasted the beer mug beside it wonderfully. Wales could have stared at it all day, but if he did that England would get mad. Wales did like angering England though, the way he would yell and flail about was quite funny. He of course, could get away with it and see a side of England no normal human got to. Seeing England angry and coming out unscathed was always amusing for him.

"Brought your tea English?" said Wales cheerfully before looking around in slight confusion, with his grin unfaltering, "Where did Dutchie go?"

"Home, before he killed you, you twit," said England.

"Can I drink his beer then?" asked Wales, who would never want to waste a beer.

"Sure, go ahead Wales," said England, pouring over his papers.

Wales sat down happily on the edge of the desk, looking over the papers, "Catholics barred from Public Office and Parliament. Ouch, sis won't like that one."

"That would be the idea," said England, "If she comes home and promises to behave, I'll repeal them."

"Registering priests?" Wales continued, looking at the paper with interest, "Banned from buying land, bad on foreign education, barred from entering Trinity College...I really don't understand where people get this idea that I'm the sadistic one."

"Perhaps if you would stop taking so much delight in tormenting your siblings?" suggested England, "You keep harassing Scotland and...and..."

"Yeah, I cut sis up good, but I knew she could take it," shrugged Wales, drinking his beer with a smile, "Besides, if she's still with France after that, it just shows how determined she is to punch you in the balls."

"You know...that's not how brothers should treat their sisters," said England.

Wales looked the laws over, "So I shouldn't cut sis up with a sword?"

"No, you shouldn't..." repeated England.

"But it's okay for you to cut her up like this?"

England's face hardened as he snatched the paper away. "Get out."

Wales shrugged and skipped towards the door calling happily, "You're going to die alone and hated."

Wales shut the door behind himself quickly, but managed to catch a glimpse of England's face. England was kind to him, England was trying to be a good big brother, but sometimes, Wales just had the urge to say terrible things to him that would anger him, keep him awake at night, eat him alive. It always felt easier to smile once he made England's face turn all white like that. He wondered what it would feel like to rebel again, to make England really, truely squirm again. He was not strong enough at the moment, but perhaps one night day, if he felt that strange urge to hurt England, he might slip something in his food, loosen his saddle then spook his horse, maybe even accidentaly shoot him in a battle. England just deserved it sometimes. And when England did deserve it, if he ever did something truely terrible that deserved a good punishment, Wales would be a good brother, and deliver it swiftly.

It was only right, England had been such a good brother to him, Wales really ought to do the same.

* * *

_Derp, what's this? Two updates in one day? Why, it's because I got my VERY FIRST CRITIQUE! Thank you very much to iSweevoi. I'll work hard in the future to improve, and the critique was just what I needed to give me some muse. Even though it kinda hurts a bit. _

_Notes time~ Llywen ap Gruffydd was the last effective monarch/ruler/big important guy of Wales. As Wales noted, he was killed after being lured to a meeting. Llywn's brother Dafydd ap Gruffydd continued to resist, but in the end was captured, drawn and quartered. That was also Edward I by the way...he seemed to have a thing for drawing and quartering._

_William Wallace...do I even have to explain who this guy is? Maybe I do...that Mel Gibson movie wasn't very accurate. I mean...the Battle of Stirling Bridge, without a bridge? They did get some basic facts right though, and his death scene (minus that whole FREEDOM thing) was incredibly accurate. _

_Penal Law - Some were enacted shortly after the Treaty of Limerick, and some closer to the close of the century which helped spark the Rebellion of 1798. _

_Second circle of hell - According to Dante's Inferno, which was incredibly popular and widely read at the time, the Second level was reserved for those guilty of lust, thus why Ireland keeps telling France that's where he's going. Interestingly, popular culture has mixed The Divine Comedy, Paradise lost and Pilgrim's Progress, with the Bible in it's images of Christianity._

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~REVIEW~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ If you do, you get a cookie! _


	6. A Little Monk

A Little Monk

"Well, we lost a total of seventy seven chateaux and villages, our navy has been decimated since the Battle of La Hogue, but on the bright side, the Allies all have smallpox and we have Dauphine."

Switzerland and Ireland looked equally unimpressed. It had been a little over a month since Steenkerque, and despite managing to fend off a surprise attack by the allies of the Augsburg League, things were looking grim on quite a few fronts. The three nations met in what had been converted into Ireland's quarters, the walls and desks strewn with masses of reports and letters dealing with both the war and news from the Emerald Isle. France looked over the desk, shuffling piles of once organized papers about, much to Ireland's displeasure, finding a map and laying it out on top of the mess he had made. Switzerland sat on Ireland's bed looking about until France got his bearings and the informal and impromptu meeting could continue. The Chateau was a large, impressive building, but Switzerland had not been surprised when France said it was not as great as Versailles, even though the fourth building endeavour was still underway.

Switzerland bit his lip. He was a mercenary, and his dealings with finance served his occupation well. France had a large army, likely in the hundred thousands, but if he kept going like this, Switzerland had a feeling that the other blond nation would not fare very well. Peering out the gothic window Switzerland watched as summer began to fade into vibrant shades of autumn. Winter would come soon, and then spring. Winter would bring an onslaught of problems though. Fighting would likely slow down in winter, it would be much harder to get large armies from one place to another. Winter, with longer periods of darkness often brought on fatigue and depression that would naturally make men less willing to fight. Switzerland drummed his fingers on his leg, which was recovering from nearly being chopped off by an angry Netherlands, who apparently did not like being shot. The mercenary nation sighed, France was flamboyant, and could come off as an idiot and a tease, but he was handy with a sword, and Switzerland might have lost his leg if not for him.

"Suisse? Are you paying attention?" asked France.

Switzerland looked up, "Yeah, whatever, go ahead."

France curled his lip, "What is it with you two and speaking so freely around me…never mind. Irlande, pull that chair over, so we can gather all sit here."

France sat next to Switzerland on the bed as Ireland pulled the desk chair over to use as a make shift table, then squatted next to it as France laid out the map. He hummed pensively as he drew out some fresh lines on it, marking out the latest advancements on both sides. "Well, we seem to be doing well in the South. Perhaps we can make it as far as Swabia."

"That's pretty far…you don't think this might be going too far? If you have a bad crop, you'll be in economic crisis and-" began Switzerland.

"They all caught smallpox and retreated, if that isn't a sign from God, than I don't know what is," interrupted France. He looked at Ireland, "Let's ask our resident clairvoyant, any foreboding nightmares?"

"Bard," corrected Ireland, "Not a clairvoyant…sir…and no, none as of late."

"Ah, good, you've been working on your manners in my absence; now get up off the floor. Anyhow, after that disastrous sea battle, I believe we should focus our attentions on the Rhine," said France.

Ireland sat on Switzerland's other side, being careful not to move in any way that would cause him pain. Switzerland crossed his arms and looked at the map irritably, "We sort of have to since nobody's putting any effort into restoring the navy."

"Louis doesn't find it necessary, and since we are doing so well on land, neither do I really. Let Angleterre and Pays-Bas play pirate if they want," shrugged France, "Perhaps once we've dominated them on land we can work on the sea."

"Pardon, Pays-Bas?" asked Ireland.

« He means Netherlands, » explained Switzerland, "So basically we keep doing what we're doing?"

"I would phrase it more eloquently; however, that is the idea. We will need to shift some men around since troops had to be transferred to assist in the attacks on Dauphine. As for our situation, Irlande has recovered, but now Suisse is out of commission," noted France, becoming slightly more grave, "I would have hoped all three of us would have been able to fight together, seeing as we're outnumbered."

"I've been thinking though, why don't we fight with our armies? Seems silly to me to carry on like we have in a sitch like this," shrugged Ireland.

"Eleven," said France plainly, causing Ireland to scowl in frustration.

Switzerland ignored their inside joke, "I've been wondering the same thing. It seems silly to have us and our armies fight separately. It's the same outcome anyways, and we wouldn't get half as beaten up all the time."

"It's just how it is," explained France, "Those have been the rules since…I believe my Grandfather's time."

"Not everything about Rome is so great sir," said Ireland irritably, "The vomitorium for example?"

"The point is, that is the way things are. If you want things to change, bring it up at the next meeting of nations."

Ireland looked at France for a moment, pursed her lips and went back to looking over the map. Switzerland nodded, "I might just do that. It just seems ridiculous how we keep fighting against such ridiculous odds. And since firearms have been invented, things haven't been the same."

"You should not complain Suisse, you are a wizard with a rifle…and not bad with a sword I hear…care to give me a private demonstration?" said France slyly.

"Pass," said Switzerland.

"I don't think I've ever seen you use a sword," said Ireland, who had not caught the double entendre.

Switzerland turned and looked at her, "To be honest, I don't see the future in it. Once rifles become more advanced, I don't think anyone will fight in close range combat anymore."

Ireland cast a glance at the long sword mounted on the wall. Long range firearms were changing the way people fought more quickly than she had ever anticipated. The 'medieval' age had passed, and now it seemed this 'renaissance' was passing as well. How long would it be until the sword was an antique along with all of the rifles and canons that were supposedly advanced. Would armies keep distancing themselves? How long would it be until they would not have to look the people they were killing in the eye?

"On that cheerful note, does everyone understand the situation," asked France.

"Sure," grunted Switzerland.

"I suppose," said Ireland instinctively, still lost in thought.

France looked at the two and then at the map. He looked at the two different countries, "Alps…Irish Sea…cliffs…I am starting to think that you two were just born naturally defensive and distant from others. Of all of the countries that I employ, I had to get the two with natural barriers and bad personalities."

"Well how would you have us act," asked Ireland.

"Polite, amiable, sociable…" said France, his eyes roving to Switzerland, "Loving…"

"I have a headache," grumbled Switzerland, picking up his crutches. France frowned and looked slightly shocked at being turned down so bluntly. The blond nation picked himself up and set himself on his crutches, wincing at the pain in his nearly severed leg.

"Need a hand?" asked Ireland, "I could help you to your room."

"No, but if you could get me a new leg, I don't think I'd object," said the reclusive nation wryly as he made his way to the door, "I'm just going to be looking over Swiss affairs, though if you want to stop by later we could discuss trade agreements."

Switzerland made his way to the door, quite quickly for a man on crutches. Ireland got up off the bed and actually had to jog a step to the door to open it for him. The blond nation grunted his thanks before making his speedy exit.

"And there he goes…" signed France, leaning back on the bed.

Ireland replaced the chair and set to work putting all of the papers back in their proper places, sorting which reports belonged to the brigade and which had been sent from home. She, like Switzerland had to juggle duties in the brigade with her duties as a nation. Not that Ireland had a great many left, seeing as England had taken over most of her duties, much to her displeasure. She set the map back in its place, pausing to look at the little island to the left of the larger one where her brothers lived. She frowned to herself and touched the small piece of land on the map reverently, lovingly before she put it back on its shelf.

It was times like these when she really wondered why she left home in the first place. For all her people were known as the 'wild rovers' they were also very prone to homesickness. Every time Ireland looked at the map she instantly thought of rolling green hills, ancient trees and passage tombs until she wanted to curl up in a pathetic little ball in her bed pining for home. Not all Irish acted this acutely, but it seemed most of the brigade longed to see home again to some degree.

"Homesick again?" asked France.

"No," lied Ireland.

"You know, denial isn't healthy. If you need to let it out, let it out."

"I do not. I am perfectly content right now, and I do not cry," huffed Ireland.

"Yes you do," countered France.

"I had salt air in my eyes," insisted the red haired nation.

"Suit yourself," said France warily.

"With all due respect…why are you still in my bed?" asked Ireland.

"Because Suisse turned me down, and you seem to have recovered, so…"

"So?" asked Ireland, playing oblivious, hoping France would drop the subject.

"So, there is a gorgeous man alone with you in your room, lying in your bed, so naturally you…" offered France.

"Kick the bastard, run out of the room and find the nearest confessional," replied Ireland, with complete honesty.

"Oh I see I have much work to do," moaned France, "Think, romantically, feel the attraction, the tensions building…"

"That's a sin," said Ireland bluntly.

France looked up at the girl who stared down at him decidedly. Her arms were crossed, her eyes were fixed and her mouth was drawn up in a scowl. France did his best not to laugh. Ireland looked exactly like some sort of priest, a very feminine looking priest, but a brother or father of some sort none the less. Even her last words 'that's a sin' had come off as quite priestly, with a grave, preaching tone to them, fixed on saving their souls from hell. France took another look around the room and nearly laughed again. Aside from the weapons, it looked very much like a little monk's study. There was a crucifix over the bed, images of saints on the desk, and what looked like either a rosary or a chaplet hung on one of the bedposts. France covered his mouth, trying not to laugh as Ireland stared down at him like he was a naughty boy in Sunday school.

"You find hell funny?" asked Ireland gravely.

"Non…I find you funny. What are you, some sort of nun?" asked France, doing his best not to giggle.

Ireland glowered, "I spent a few hundred years with monks actually, sir…until those bloody Vikings…"

France covered his mouth again to stifle a laugh. He was trying to imagine it. The rough girl standing in front of him, sitting at a desk chanting in a most Gregorian fashion while copying out an ancient manuscript wearing a nun's habit. France nearly let out a snort at the mental image. He had known Ireland was a religious country, but he had never exactly known just how religious. "This should be fun, do you still have your robes?"

"Yes sir, but I've outgrown them," said Ireland hurriedly, not liking where this conversation was headed.

"I'll have to have larger ones sent to you. This is something I simply must see for myself," said France.

"You did see," said Ireland bluntly.

France stopped his giggling fits and looked at the girl, "I think I would have remembered something that strange."

"You brought manuscripts to be copied during the fifth…or was it the sixth century. I do remember you bringing them, I answered the door myself," insisted Ireland.

France paused and thought back. He remembered bringing books to be copied. His Grandfather Rome had found them unnecessary and wanted them discarded, but France, being a young and still a little defiant when it came to his parental figure wanted to keep them. Knowing full well that the best place to hide a tree was a forest, France decided the best place to hide a book would be in a giant library of an Irish monastery. He recalled the rain, pounding indignantly on the large wooden doors as his feet began to sink into the mud. He also remembered being just about to leave, disappointed that his plan was going to fall apart at the final stages when the large foreboding doors opened, just a crack. A little white hand slipped out from behind the door, pulling it inwards with a great deal of effort. France assisted the monk, giving it a little push until it the great door was open enough that the two could face each other. He remembered the monk must have been quite young, and of a lower rank to be opening the door. The monk had been short, hunched over slightly with hands folded into his sleeves for warmth and a hood pulled modestly over his face. France stopped his train of thought. Red hair. The little monk had red curls poking out of the hood, and just a small patch of blue on his left cheek.

"That was you?" asked France.

Ireland nodded, "We've run into each other plenty of times over the centuries sir. You can't tell me you've completely forgotten the Norman Invasions as well?"

"I remember becoming bored with them," said France, before grimly looking away, "And that horrible little game you call hurling. I'd still like to see you dressed like a friar though."

"Why?" asked Ireland.

France grinned mischievously, "Because, I've never corrupted a monk before, it should prove to be a most interesting conquest."

"With all due respect sir…over my dead body," huffed Ireland indignantly.

"Not one of my kinks, but thank you for the suggestion," said France with a sarcastic grin, "Twelve."

Ireland glowered, "I'm going to talk trade with Switzerland…"

France chuckled to himself as the girl stalked out of the room looking like she was about to storm a castle. Both Switzerland and Ireland, reclusive countries with natural barriers and defences against potential invaders, and it showed in their personalities. They were both useful, both interesting, and both needing to unwind before they mentally cracked.

France thought to himself as he laid back on Ireland's bed, looking up at the face of Christ suffering on the cross looking down at him from the crucifix that hung over the bed. How could Ireland sleep peacefully at night with that face looking down at her? Then again, Jeanne had found comfort in it. She loved the image, and her voices. Perhaps it was something he would never understand. When he was little, he thought he understood gods and religion once. How wrong and childish he had been. France envied Ireland a little, despite what she saw and the blood on her hands she could still believe with all her heart. France doubted. He doubted very much.

"Are you mad at me Jeanne?" he asked out loud, "I'm not the paragon of virtue you wanted me to be, I don't think I ever will be, and I'm not sure I can forgive the god or the men who took you from me…"

* * *

England lay back in bed panting, a cool cloth placed over his eyes. His whole body ached, and he could feel the beads of dead tissues forming all over his skin. It was not his first bout of smallpox, but that did not mean that he enjoyed it. Especially when it meant he had to retreat from the battlefield because he was too sick to continue. His sole comfort was that Netherlands and Scotland had also contracted the virus, so it was not only for his sake that they had to retreat. Unfortunately, Wales seemed to be immune, and was playing nurse to both England and Scotland. England felt Wales' slim fingers curiously prod a boil on his face.

"I'd say you look like shit, but honestly, shit looks better," said Wales, pulling the cloth from England's face.

"Thanks…" grumbled England, "How's Scotland."

"About the same as you, but it's harder to wipe the fluid away since he's harrier. All of the boils start leaking and he gets all sweaty so it smells really bad, and since it's harder to clean pimples form so sometimes there's pus and-"

"Wales…enough…or I'll throw up all over you," threatened England, who was beginning to feel like throwing up anyhow.

"Are you? Alright, I have your bucket," chirped Wales happily, thrusting a bucket under England's face.

England nearly wretched on the spot, shoving the pale away, "You idiot! You didn't empty it from last time!"

"I didn't? Well, isn't that a pity," shrugged Wales. He put the bucket on the floor and leaned back in his chair, "So what's the plan English?"

"I'll let you know when these wretched pox have healed," snapped England, "Now stop sitting there uselessly and get me something to-"

"Tea, some cream, and a pinch of sugar, I know," said Wales.

England sighed, "Sorry…I'm just not in good humour at the moment."

"English, now might not be the best time, but could I ask you something?" asked Wales, still smiling, but his narrow green eyes looked down at him pensively.

"What is it?" asked England.

"Can you call me Cymru?" asked Wales.

England stared at his brother, "What's wrong with Wales? It's a good Saxon name. And it would take a long time for an official name change, especially with a war going on."

Wales sighed, "Not what I meant English…Oh well, guess I better go make tea."

"And take that bucket out when you leave," instructed England.

"I will, I promise," smiled Wales.

The vomit filled bucket stayed at the foot of England's bed for a week.

* * *

_Relatively short chapter is short! Oh my, what's this? Religion in fanfiction? Well, Ireland was a very Catholic country and still is to this day quite Catholic. Monasteries contributed significantly to world culture by preserving books and manuscripts. Because of this, Ireland is nicknamed 'The Isle of Saints and Scholars.' The most populous religion in France was and still is Catholicism, and at this point in time, France had usurped Spain as the 'Champion of Catholicism' in Europe, though in present day Catholicism is on the decline, and many Catholics are non-practicing. There's also a shortage of priests, though we're doing better since we started, with like, twelve priests and seven deacons for the whole world?_

_On the topic of religion, a quick word about bards. To become a bard in Celtic society, it took twelve years of study. After achieving the rank of bard, a bard could continue his studies and become a Vate, and finally a Druid. Bards preformed a wide variety of tasks in the community, including but not limited to lawyer, judge, clairvoyant, soothsayer, historian, genealogist, story teller, musician, and religious leader, among other things._

_The Vomitorium – The Ancient Romans really had these. During a night of feasting and er, let's call them festivities, people would eat and drink until they were full, go to the vomitorium, throw up, and come back to eat some more. The Celts, and other 'barbaric' nations weren't impressed._

_IMPORTANT SIDE NOTE: Thank you all for reading. This fic has almost 200 hits. Special thanks to Zombies are evil, KandHforever, iSweevoi, ultamatebishoujo21 and cross-over-lover232 for the reviews, EmoPoetIchigo for the Favourites, and BlueXPinkX21 and xXLuLU for adding this fic to alerts. Unfortunately, there will be no chapter next week due to midterm exams and essays. **Hopefully FOTWG will be continued the week after next **if all goes well and my Profs aren't mean to me. To make up for it, please enjoy an omake._

_…_

_REVIEW~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ :D ?_


	7. OMAKE: Rebecca Riots

The Rebecca Riots

"Hey Iwerddon, we're about the same height and build right?"

Ireland perked up slightly and looked her brother over. Her hands rested in the lukewarm water, lazily running a cloth over a dirty plate. Morning sunlight shone through the kitchen window, illuminating Ireland's red hair in a sort of frizzy halo of hairs that stuck out awkwardly from her 'margaret' hairstyle. It was a beautiful day at Kirkland Manor and all was well with the world, by England's standards. Scotland was out experimenting with who knew what elements in his shack after doing chores in the stables, Ireland was begrudgingly tending the housework and Wales was being an ass. Everything was normal by acceptable English standards.

As for Wales question, Ireland was a girl and Wales was a boy, though they did seem to be about the same size. Wales was a few inches taller with a lanky build, while Ireland had a shorter, stocky build. Their shoulders were about the same, though Ireland had a slimmer waist and slightly broader hips. "I suppose…"

"Can I borrow your dress?" asked Wales with a big grin.

Ireland nearly fell over when Wales asked this bizarre favour, making the dish she had been washing clatter loudly into the sink and cause soapy water to fly everywhere. Wales wanted, her dress? Granted, she hated wearing it, and only did so because she had the misfortune of becoming part of the United Kingdom and England was forcing her to wear it. Wearing a dress was not her first choice, but she could deal with wearing one. England breathing down her neck and demanding she wear one, she could not. But that did not mean she wanted to give the dress to Wales. Why did Wales even want a dress anyhow? She looked at her brother for some indication that this whole thing was just a big joke. However, her Welsh brother smiled down at her and looked at her pleadingly with green eyes through a curtain of tawny bangs. Ireland coughed to clear her throat, "Why…"

"I'm going to attack a toll booth," announced Wales proudly, his grin broader than ever.

"…So…you need to wear a dress for that these days?" asked Ireland hesitantly. She was well aware that her brother had not been completely sane for a very long time now, not since his last prince had been murdered.

"Get with the times Iwerddon, everybody who's anybody is doing it," Wales replied, "Look if you swap clothes with me you get to wear pants again."

"But it means you're going to be running around in a dress," countered Ireland, "Why on earth do you need a dress for this? Wouldn't a dress…I don't know…get caught on things, trip people, and they're so bloody flammable these days."

"I don't but…please Iwerddon? Pretty please? You'll be my favourite sister," begged Wales. The result looked quite disturbing. Wales was somehow managing to pout with a giant grin plastered across his face.

"I'm your _only_ sister," grumbled Ireland.

"It's to fight the English?" offered Wales.

Ireland sighed and pointed up the stairs, "I'll see what I can fit you into."

"Thanks sis!" exclaimed Wales, beaming very literally from ear to ear, "I'll bring you back a souvenir!"

* * *

England could not believe his eyes. When he had heard that the Welsh were rioting he had expected anything from a false alarm to all out guerrilla warfare. What he had not expected was a group of burly Welsh men in drag, led by his brother, congregating outside a toll booth. England groaned. What had he done to deserve this? Had he really done something so terrible that his brother would want to put on their sister's clothes, complete with a frilly bonnet and makeup? England grimaced as he looked at Wales, taking in the wretched sight once more. His oldest brother was wearing Ireland's finest pale blue evening gown with puffed sleeves and a high lacy collar. His bonnet was tied nicely in a perfect bow under his chin, framing his pale, grinning face. To top it all off, someone, likely Ireland, had used a delicate pink coral on Wales lips, rouged his cheeks and powdered his neck. England was horrified and appalled at the indecency of this display.

"Wales, what the bloody hell do you think you're doing!" yelled England.

Wales simply smiled and addressed his army of burly cross dressers, "What is it my children? There is something in my way. I cannot go in?"

To which the burly army of cross dressers replied, "What is it mother Rebecca? Nothing should stand in your way."

England palmed his forehead. Exactly what sort of riot was this? Wales gathered a group of farmers to perform some sort of play? Why in front of a toll booth? They were blocking traffic! That and their acting, especially Wales' was deplorable. Wales however, melodramatically flung his arm over his face. The sleeve was fairly tight on his longer arms, stretching and tearing it a little along the seam with his over dramatized display. In sorrow and cried out, "I do not know my children. I am old and I cannot see well."

"Shall we come and move it out of your way mother Rebecca?" said the rioters.

Wales stumbled forward, pretending to be half blind and rested his hands on the gate, grinning devilishly all the while. "Wait! It feels like a big gate put across the road to stop your old mother."

The rioters started to grin themselves, "We will break it down, mother. Nothing stands in your way."

England stepped back. They…they would not really attack would they? Sure they carried torches and pitchforks like all good rioters should, but for god's sake they were wearing dresses! They would trip, or the long skirts would get in the way, and on top of that dresses were so bloody flammable this day in age.

"Perhaps it will open…" suggested Wales, giving the gate a little shake. His grin only grew broader, "Oh my dear children, it is locked and bolted. What can be done?"

"It must be taken down, mother. You and your children must be able to pass," said the rioters in unison.

Wales turned to England, who in turn shuddered. Wales wouldn't. It was completely idiotic. The sheer stupidity of the act was…he wouldn't. Wales was crazy, but surely not crazy enough to go down in history as the country who had run around in drag attacking toll booths. Wales turned back to the rioters, "Off with it then, my children."

England looked on horrified as the Welsh rioters, in drag, began to attack the toll booth with Wales looking on approvingly, tugging at the sleeves of his sister's dress. England grabbed Wales by his frilly, laced front and gave him a good shake, "Call them off you big twit! Do you want to be sent to Australia!"

"But if you send me now it'll be winter, and you know my lips chap in the cold," complained Wales.

"What! Do you think I'm sending you on vacation!" yelled England.

"That would be nice of you English, you work me so hard these days. I even broke a nail yesterday you know," said Wales, grinning to himself and looking as coquettish as he could, swishing his hips and making the skirts of the gown flutter as he walked, "Could you send me to Rotarua in New Zealand instead? I liked those hot springs, and it's full of sheep so I'll feel right at home."

"I am not sending you on vacation for arson and vandalism!" cried England, "Call them off! We're heading straight home! Perhaps a month of hard labour will make you see the errors of your ways!"

"But I don't want to see the error of my ways," pouted Wales, still grinning, "I want less tolls, and low rent."

"No, I'm not giving into this madness," said England firmly.

Wales tilted his head and called to the rioters, "Hey, save a few boards for my sister, I promised her a souvenir. Don't burn it down like the last one…I think there were still people inside that last one. It kind of smelled funny...Like when sis and Alban decided to deep fry beer battered bacon out in the shack…"

"Fine! Fine!" exclaimed England, "I can arrange for your rent to be lowered and for tolls to be lessened! It's the best I can do, just don't kill anyone!"

Wales nodded his approval, "Okay boys he said he'd lower the tolls and the rent. Let's get out of these dresses and get back to work."

England watched with a sick sort of fascination as the Welsh farmers celebrated briefly and walked away, Wales pausing to pick up a few boards to bring home. Why…Why did his siblings do these things to him…but more importantly…

"Wales, why the hell did you all wear dresses to a riot?" asked England.

"Uh…It's fun?" shrugged Wales, he held up a piece of what used to be the gate, "Do you think Iwerddon will like this one? Maybe I should get one for Alban too…Oh, and English?"

"What now…" grumbled England.

"Can I get a dress like this?" smiled Wales, doing a twirl, "Iwerddon would probably sew me one if I asked nice."

"Absolutely not! Come on, let's get you home before someone sees you and assumes I cross-dress by association! Honestly…you're such a shit disturber…"

"I love you too English, I love you too."

* * *

_Culture/Historic notes: This really happened people. While events have been condensed, this was essentially what happened. For more info look up the Rebecca Riots of 1839-1843 in South and Mid Wales. According to local history, a woman named Rebecca gave a dress to one of the rioters, others believed Rebecca was a reference to the Biblical Rebecca. Also the dialogue between Wales and the rioters is what the rioters would recite before their attacks._

_The Scottish deep fry things, the Irish like beer and bacon. FACT: North Americans often wrongly assume that the Irish eat corned-beef because it became a staple of Irish-American diet. In Ireland, they eat bacon. Sorry folks :(_

_The Scottish are great inventors. Seriously, wiki Scottish Inventions. They're a really bright bunch, and I wouldn't put it past them to invent something as awesome as beer battered bacon._


	8. Advancing on the Rhine and Salem

Advance on the Rhine and Salem

_Dear Scotland, _

_I heard you and England caught smallpox along with a few of your commanders from France at our war meeting. Sounds nasty. I also hear England's sent you off to the New World for some reason. I pray for your safe passage, and please let America and Canada know their aunt still thinks of them. _

_You will be pleased to know that I am well here in France. I have not told France, because I am very afraid of giving him a swelled head, but Saint Germain en Laye, where James II's exiled court and the Irish Brigade are taking residence, is one of the most magnificent buildings I have ever seen. James is still an ass by the way. I would much rather serve William, if only his interests were aligned with mine I might have. _

_I am getting on well with Switzerland, and he has been helping me improve my aim so I can shoot you properly next time. He has also been helping me learn more about managing an economy, and I must say despite his manner he has the patience of a saint. Captain Sarsfield is well, but looking forward to winter retirement, and reacquainting myself with his wife Honora. I am not sure how I get on with her. She is such a beautiful lady, a wonderful dancer and always in such fashionable society. She is with child and I still look like a bulky ape beside her! I suppose I could try to look like a lady at a masquerade, but knowing me, I would trip on my skirts. _

_As for France, never in my years have I met such a lecherous, arrogant, demanding and irritating man. He is forever reminding me that he is my superior, and while he is, I do not appreciate being reminded of my low status. When he is not using lewd words with me, or trying to convince me to kiss him, he is doing the same to poor Switzerland, and when it is not Switzerland, it's that poor stable boy or the girl who does the washing in the camps. While I am very glad he has not sent me away for lying to him, or because I am a girl as England would have done, he is beyond infuriating. He also never wakes up in the morning. I have to pry him out of bed to attend his duties and then he scolds me for it. _

_Also, France keeps mentioning you, and asking if I will trade places with you, usually after I refuse to kiss him. Would you please tell me what is going on between you two! I am not one for prying or gossip, but France just gets this look on his face when your name comes up in passing and looks almost seasick. He has also told me you have a new scheme in mind, and I would be lying if I said I was not insulted that you had not told me sooner. _

_In the mean time, I wish you the best of luck. Watch out for sea monsters._

_Your little sister, Ireland. _

Ireland signed her name at the bottom and reread the letter. She had been missing home, and was not quite getting the satisfying 'homey' feeling from looking over reports on collapsing parliaments, lists of imports and exports, and not to mention James II breathing down her neck to mobilize the Irish to take over England. As much as she would love to take over England, Ireland knew that if the French armada could not stand up to England, her little brigade could not, and she was sick of people turning her beautiful island into a battleground. Her people had already suffered through the Williamite war, and that was quite enough. At the same time though, the only way to end English oppression would be to eventually attack England in some way.

Ireland sighed as she blew gently on the ink to help it dry more quickly. What could she do without starting an all out war in Ireland? Writing a letter or protest or starting a petition would not help. She had few resources and little wealth with which to hire mercenaries, and with her England in charge of most of the politics, Ireland had no way of making formal alliances with other nations. England would not even allow herself, Scotland or Wales to sit in at meetings of nations. Ireland folded up the letter and sealed it with the insignia of the Dillon regiment, only burning her fingers a little on the hot wax.

She cast a glance at France, who was still asleep. A low grumble escaped her throat. She had been up early enough to go for a run, review maps and reports, say morning prayers, get breakfast and write home. It was almost seven o'clock. France was really wasting the day. Ireland went to her pack and pulled out a tin whistle. France had forbidden her from striking him, so she could not give him a shove or a jab to get him out of bed, but she could improvise other ways. Ireland blew forcefully into the whistle, making a high pitched, off key, squealing noise that made France bolt up. Ireland hid the whistle behind her back, "Oh, you're awake. I brought your breakfast."

France looked around, "Did you hear…?"

"Hear what sir?" asked Ireland, trying not to grin too broadly.

France looked Ireland up and down, "Hands where I can see them. Now."

Ireland nimbly slipped the whistle into her belt and showed France her hands. The blond superpower looked at the small, callused, and very empty hands in confusion, "I could have sworn I heard…a recorder being played very badly."

"No recorder here sir," said Ireland honestly, passing France a tray with his breakfast, and using the temporary distraction to hide the whistle, "We're advancing in about an hour, so you'd best eat now. Can't have you fighting on an empty stomach or getting cramps while you're duelling."

France looked at Ireland suspiciously, "You seem oddly…helpful today. For the last few days…what are you up to."

"Beating up the English or their allies always puts me in a chipper mood," said Ireland, sitting on her cot.

"You know Ecosse said something similar once," said France, trying to enjoy the military issue breakfast and failing miserably.

"Scotland and I are from the same stock," explained Ireland, "He's the one who found me."

France nodded, "I suppose that makes the two of you quite close…is there any more news of him?"

Ireland watched France get that seasick look again and shrugged, "I'm sending out another letter soon. He's crossing the Atlantic, it may take him months to reply."

France looked slightly downtrodden at the thought and began to cut up his bread and eggs into unnecessarily small pieces. Ireland looked him over curiously for a moment before slipping her new Epee de cour into her belt. She had felt so strange since she had exchanged her older, heavier long sword for this newer one. It was short and light, she could move much more quickly with it than she ever could have with a long sword, however it seemed much more flimsy. It was also much more decorative than her long sword had been, with curving knots snaking their way around the hilt. It seemed unnecessary to Ireland, but she liked it. She had been surprised that France had specifically instructed the blacksmith to incorporate Irish designs along the French steel. Ireland's thick brows furrowed slightly as she traced a steel knot and wondered how France could be so thoughtful and even kind one moment, and a depraved wretch the next.

"You are going back to Saint Germain en Laye with your officers for winter quarters, are you not?" asked France.

"Of course sir," said Ireland plainly, "Where else would I go?"

"I was hoping you would consider an invitation to Versailles," said France, still playing with his food, "Not for a vacation mind you. The truth is I am in need of a page, and you seem the most advantageous choice."

Ireland blinked. A page? She had lived a long life and held many positions over the years but a page was not one of them. What was more, France was asking her to become a page at one of the most ellustrious courts in all of Europe. "But…why sir?"

"Many reasons," explained France, "Infuriating England, communication with Scotland, your presence would bring closer connections between James and Louis, and I need someone honest. I received a letter saying my page was sacked under suspicious circumstances."

Ireland bit her lip, "I…don't think I can sir…"

France looked at her inquisitively and Ireland continued, slightly hesitant, "Well…look at me. Really look at me…and listen to this accent. If I go into your court I'll just make a fool of myself, my brigade and my home. I'm not like you countries on the continent. You must have noticed by now. I'm wild, I speak too freely, I have a temper, I'm very warlike. I'm not suited to be anything in your court."

"Except perhaps a chaplain," said France, laughing slightly to himself, "Your nature is problematic, but, should you ever have the desire to change it, do consider the position. I need someone I can trust."

"The Irish do have a reputation for loyalty," said Ireland, smiling softly.

"Irish loyalty? Goodness no! I meant that I can easily blackmail you if you get any funny ideas," said France waving her off, "Well, there's no way I can finish eating this. It's disgusting. Shall we head to the front?"

"Yes…" grumbled Ireland, "I have the sudden urge to shoot something…"

* * *

Scotland landed on the American coast and sighed with relief as he stepped off the boat on to land. Land that was solid and dry underneath his feet that would not flow with the waves. He took his first few steps awkwardly, trying to regain his land legs as he paced up and down the docks. Raking a massive hand through his mess of curly brown hair he looked out across the ocean, or at least as far as his eyes could see. How had they ever thought the world was flat? If it had been flat he would have been able to look out over the horizon indefinitely, not watch in curve in slightly in the distance. Thank goodness for Galileo, though he had been a little too full of himself.

Scotland pulled out the 'important documents' from a pouch at his side. He had read them of course, and immediately realized that there was no need for a nation to deliver these. A human would have done the task sufficiently. The 'important business' was likewise trivial. There was no need for Scotland to be in America. He knew full well why he was here though. England wanted Scotland as far from France as possible. The highland nation sighed and shoved the papers back in the pouch. It was for the best on all sides really. England did not want Scotland's emotions getting in the way of his ability to fight and Scotland did not want to fight France. Removing himself from the situation was the best solution, and after a bout with smallpox, Scotland had become quite sick of being confined indoors.

The giant nation went to the colonial office and dropped the papers in the mailbox. He did not present himself to the officials. He did not have to. Casually he walked the crude, new roads of the frontier country. Salem Massachusetts was the name of the place. Scotland reached into his pouch again and pulled out a much more pleasant paper, a letter written to him from his nephew in crude English with adorable backwards letter 'e's and misplaced capital letters. The note instructed 'MistRe CaRnugy on important busness too meat MistEe Jones at Salom Masachusets at one clock shaRp.' Scotland smiled and laughed to himself as he reread the letter, imagining the rambunctious boy pouring over the letter, trying to make it as official and professional as he could. Scotland would have to correct him on the spelling of his last name though.

"Uncle Scotland!"

A blond and white bolt tore down the street and tackled the large man to the ground. Scotland had forgotten how strong the boy was, even with his small size he could lift animals that weighed tons like they were puppies or kittens. Scotland landed, slapping the ground with his great arms to distribute his weight better and keep the wind from being knocked from his lungs. He looked up and saw the boy in his white robe and short blond hair, looking about cautiously with his large blue eyes.

"What's all this then lad?" asked Scotland.

"Shh!" hissed America, "They'll hear you!"

"Who lad," whispered Scotland, playing along, "Indians, shape shifting ghosts…a wayward spirit perhaps?"

"No," said America gravely, "Witches. They're everywhere. Salem is full of them. One wrong look and the witches will kill you until your dead with a blink of an eye."

"Their eyes? Well, that's quite frightening. I don't think I can make it through such a dangerous town by myself. I might need someone strong and heroic to protect me…" mused Scotland.

"I'm a hero!" said America, perking up, "I'll protect you Uncle Scotland! You just stick with me! I'll show those witches not to mess with us!"

America, all three feet of him, marched proudly down the street, glaring at any 'suspicious' people who would dare attack him. Scotland followed behind, more than happy to allow America to 'protect' him. As they approached the jailhouse though, America lagged slightly, and clung to the hem of Scotland's kilt and he began to tremble. Scotland looked down, concern clearly showing on his face. America, who was quite pale with fear tugged on the kilt, "I…I'm not scared. I just thought you might be. Since…most of the witches are in there."

Scotland glanced at the jailhouse. He had thought for a moment that America was playing a game, but it seemed there really was something going on. He took in the sight with a critical eye. Magic was bred deep in the bones in his family. He could feel it, smell it, and even taste it. Though to 'taste' magic it would have to be particularly strong. The last time Scotland had done so it had been in an all out brawl with his siblings, when they had been careless enough to let their abilities go unchecked. For the most part now though, the siblings stayed away from magical arts. England was content simply making conversation with spirits, Ireland still had clairvoyance but rarely used it, Wales could read people a little too easily and Scotland suspected he was using some type of witchcraft to assist him. As for Scotland himself, much like England, he only used his abilities to converse with the supernatural.

Scotland took a step closer and concentrated. America reached up and grasped the large man's hand in his smaller one, trying to pull him away from danger. Scotland fixed his gaze in concentration, searching for an aura of some kind. There was none. He breathed in deeply, but he smelled nothing but the natural scents of the town. Wood, earth, stone, smoke coming from stoves and firepits. There was nothing remotely magical about the area at all. He crouched down and held America's shoulders.

"Lad, when you catch these witches, what happens to them?" asked Scotland.

"Well, they go to prison," said America, "And then we have a trial and sometimes...executions..."

"What sort of trial?" asked Scotland, "How can you tell they're witches?"

"Well, I don't live here all the time, so I don't know everything exactly," explained America, "But, there's the touch test, and some of them use horoscopes, and they look for weird marks on their bodies. And something called spectral evidence. I'm not sure what it is but…Uncle Scotland…it's…I'm…It's not safe for you here…s-since I'm the hero I have to get you away from here."

Scotland nodded as the boy trembled in his hands and cast worried glances at the Salem jailhouse. The Celtic man glowered. It looked like he would need to stay and sort out some strange business after all. He looked back at America, smiling kindly, "Here's an idea, why don't you ride up on my shoulders. You can watch out and protect me from up there."

America readily agreed an allowed Scotland to lift him up onto his broad shoulders. The small boy wrapped his arms around his uncle's neck, feeling the brown stubble on his chin make his fingers itch. America buried his face in Scotland's brown curls. It was thick, soft and comforting. It was dirty from the long voyage, but the scent and feel immediately made America feel much easier, especially as they moved away from the jailhouse where a noose swayed lazily in the breeze as it hung casually from the scaffold, patiently waiting for its next victim. America shuddered and held onto Scotland a little tighter, to make sure the large man was not scared of course. "So, why are you here Uncle Scotland. Is England still fighting?"

"Aye, that he is," replied Scotland, "He sent me to deliver some papers and ask you a very important question."

America cocked his head to the side, "What's that?"

Scotland smiled, "He wants to know if you'll come visit for Christmas when-"

America clamped his hands tightly over Scotland's mouth. "Hush! They don't celebrate Christmas here. I don't want anyone thinking you're a witch. Or popish, which isn't good around here."

Scotland pried America's hands away, "Popish? Who taught you that word?"

"Oh, England said it after he had a few of those funny drinks," said America plainly, "What does popish mean?"

"Catholic," explained Scotland, "It means Me and Wales go to the same church as England, and Ireland goes to the same one as France and Spain. Now don't say popish, it isn't a bad word, but it's not nice either."

"Is that all?" asked America, sounding a little disappointed, "People make it sound much worse, but it's just a different church? Lame. I was hoping it would be something more exciting. That's nothing to fight about or be scared of at all."

Scotland let out a loud laugh and held onto America's ankle to keep him balanced, "If only more people could think like that. I'll have to tell everyone those exact words."

America held his head high with pride as Scotland carried him down the street, "I am smart aren't I?" The boy leaned down and looked around to make sure nobody was listening, "So…I can come over for Christmas? Will there be lots of cake and presents?"

"Incredible amounts," said Scotland, "But before we leave, we have to make a few stops…and settle this witch business."

America gulped slightly, "We're going to fight the witches?"

Scotland smiled up at America, "We can't lose, we have the hero on our side."

"That's true, I guess there's nothing to be scared about," sighed America, casting a slight glance back in the direction of the jailhouse where the noose hung coyly as it waited.

* * *

England cursed as his advance was pushed back. Scotland had recovered quickly enough, he had always had the stronger constitution. England though was still reeling and covered with pockmarks that were still in the process of healing. He knew it was a bad idea to be on the battlefield, but what could he do? Leave Wales in charge? That would not end well at all. Netherlands was not faring well either. He too was covered in marks, and was much more sluggish than usual. He panted heavily and sweated from fever and fatigue, his breath coming out in visible plumes in the cold air. Winter was closing in, their bodies were beginning to slow down as the weather became colder. He looked up and snarled. Ireland had just dispatched Wales once more. She had switched blades and become much quicker as a result. France, an expert at fencing and in perfect health was too much for them once they had run out of bullets.

"Angleterre, really, spare yourself the trouble. It is almost time to retire as it is, so why not make this easy for both of us and retreat so Irlande and I can advance," suggested France with a smirk, "I do wonder how it feels though. To be stabbed in the back by your own flesh and blood, have her join forces with your enemy, and then to have her defeat you again, and again, and again."

"I will never surrender to the likes of you! You can win all the minor battles you want but in the end you have few resources, no allies and no navy!" shouted England, holding his cutlass defiantly.

Wales tried to rise to his feet, but Ireland planted her boot firmly on his back. She peered down at him, and spoke in a soft voice, "Stay down Cymru. Don't make me cut your ligaments."

France looked over the scene, at Wales squirming on the ground, twitiching in pain under his sister's hold. Then something caught his eye. A flintlock pistol in the back of the annexed nation's belt. "Irlande, seize his pistol."

Wales turned apologetically, smiling through split, bloody lips. He was exhausted, hurt, he could hardly move. England assumed it was all he could do to turn his head. "Sorry English…I messed up…didn't I…?"

The girl obeyed and disarmed her brother, holding the pistol. France strode over to her, and wrapped his arm around her waist intimately as he adjusted her stance. Ireland flushed and struggled slightly, disliking having someone so close to her as France wrapped her finger around the trigger and helped her aim. England glared at the scene in anger, then in fear. France looked up, any hint of amusement gone from his face, "I want this to end quickly Angleterre. I'll give your sister the honour, using your brother's gun. Fitting no? Unfortunately, her aim is terrible, I will have to help her a little to make this painless for both of us."

France pressed his cheek to Ireland's adjusting her aim. England rarely saw France like this. The cruel side, determined to cause as much pain as he could, "You really should have just retreated when I offered. Irlande, fire."

England fell back as the bullet pierced his chest and he fell back. The sickness, the pain, all the cuts and bullet wounds on his body overwhelmed him. He could not get up. England struggled. His hand twitched. No, he did not want it to end like this. He could not let the year's fighting end this way!

"I will see you next year Angleterre. I bid you an early Joyeux Noel. Send Ecosse my love."

* * *

_Salem Witch trials! The fall of 1692 would put Scotland close to the tail end of the trials. And with the magical Kirkland family, this was one historical subplot I couldn't resist. At this point, many had been executed, such as Bridgit Bishop, Rebecca Nurse and Sarah Good, among many others. Where this story is taking place, many are being held in prison based on 'spectral evidence' and Andrew Erickson was executed recently. Can Scotland help end the Salem trials? ;) Also, they didn't celebrate Christmas and Easter in Salem at the time. It was kinda taboo in their society._

_Winter Quarters: Yeah, officers retired for the winter. Wouldn't you?_

_Honora Sarsfield: Wife of Patrick Sarsfield, and his junior by about twenty years his junior. It was the 1600's, it happened! She accompanied her husband to France and traveled with him, as officer's families did. She is known for introducing English folk dancing to the French court (legend has it) and was counted among the most fashionable and beautiful ladies at court. She gave birth to a son in April 1693, so that would make her a few months pregnant in the autumn of 1692._

_Ireland's Opinion of William of Orange: A number of Irish officers liked William better than James, on a personal level, and would have rather fought for William. However, since their interests were with James, they supported his claim to the throne. You can support a guy's claim to the throne without liking him as a person :3_

_Versailles: Was around, but still under construction. It's fourth building project was put on hold during the war. Priorities: War Pretty castle Navy_

_ZOMG England's family is full of drama! Review? :D? Pretty please?_


	9. For Their Own Good

For Their Own Good

They had met with Governor Phips and had agreed something needed to be done. Scotland also asked a lot of questions. Too many in America's opinion. When Scotland had said they would be saving innocent people America had thought they would be doing something more exciting, and involving explosions. Instead, Scotland was asking about epilepsy, witnesses, testimonies, and all kinds of boring things. America sat in the corner quietly, kicking his feet impatiently as he sat in his chair in the governor's office. England usually complained about the buildings being too cold and plain, but America thought it was a very large, warm and well furnished building. There was a fireplace, a set of comfy chairs, some shelves and a desk. That was all anyone really needed in an office. Though, perhaps it was different in England. Maybe offices had more things. America briefly wondered what other things would fit in the Governor's office. Maybe a butter churn, or a small stable… America shook his head. No, he needed to concentrate. This was after all, a matter of life and death.

If the people who had been accused were innocent, than he and Scotland ought to make a heroic jailbreak and free everybody inside. And then angry villagers with torches and pitchforks would try to stop them! Then Scotland would be almost fatally wounded and America would have to run back and rescue him! Then he, America the hero, would bring Scotland back across the ocean, but they would be attacked by a sea monster and-

"Lad, are you paying attention?" asked Scotland.

America pouted, "I was."

"Then what was the last thing Sir Phips said?" asked Scotland.

America froze and looked at the ceiling, "How…witch trials…are…bad?"

Scotland rolled his eyes and signalled for America to join him. The little colony sheepishly went to his Uncle's side and was hoisted into Scotland's lap. He looked across at Governor Phips, a grey, long haired and aging man with a troubled expression. They were all aged old men who talked about boring things, which made politics horribly unattractive to America, and he was more than happy to let England's governors look after things. Perhaps one day, he would understand and even enjoy the things that these governors and statesmen talked about, but in the mean time, America wondered how Scotland could sit so still and listen.

"He was saying how his wife's been named by one of these 'afflicted' as a witch," explained Scotland.

"But Mrs. Phips isn't a witch. She bakes me cookies sometimes," protested America.

"To reiterate, The Reverend Increase Mather has denounced spectral evidence, which has helped a great deal in ending this madness. However, people are still obsessed with finding and executing witches," muttered Governor Phips. Scotland watched his eyes trail to the window. He remembered what America had said about witches always watching and listening and figured the governor was not completely immune to the hysteria that gripped the town.

"Have you written to England yet?" asked Scotland, "I might not have the most influence, but I can get King William's ear when I need to. I could also get my brother involved."

"I would be much obliged Mr. Carnegie, however, I am curious. How is it that you knew that the accused were not witches. Did you speak with them?" asked the Governor.

America bounced on his Uncle's lap as the tall nation started slightly, "No…"

"Then, is there some sort of test you used?" asked Phips, "Because if there is, I would like it if you shared your secret. It would certainly help end this hysteria much more quickly."

Scotland cleared his throat, "I've lived a long life, and I've seen many things, witch trials among them. Never once, did I see a witch convicted and burned. Also, I've checked the names and backgrounds of the accused, as well as accusers. Nobody seemed overly suspicious. And I seriously doubt so many people would be stupid enough to make deals with Old Roger in a town full of people hunting for witches."

"I see. There are those who suspect foul play as well, but the accusers don't gain anything. Not money, property, nothing. It's such a puzzling thing…" the Governor trailed off, "I'm just sorry that my wife had to be involved in this mess."

"I'm sorry as well…" said Scotland quietly, "Now let's see what we can do about this trial system…"

* * *

"We are about to be parted for the long, cruel months of winter and all you two can do is play with your guns…" mumbled France, very much offended.

The European Superpower crossed his arms indignantly. He had been standing in the courtyard of Saint Germain for what felt like hours, though it had only been a few moments, and was furious that his two subordinates had not noticed his presence. Instead, Switzerland was instructing Ireland on the proper way to carry a gun, while Ireland chattered to Switzerland about the merits of using a gun to bludgeon once one ran out of bullets. France stomped over, half glaring and half pouting, "I'm your employer! I demand that both of you, in fits of emotion, declare how much you'll miss me."

"That's a sin," said Ireland curtly.

"Not for half of your kingdom," replied Switzerland.

France palmed his forehead and groaned. He liked both of his subordinates, he truly did. Ireland was an amusing curiosity and infuriated England, and Switzerland had been with him for years, giving him a comfortable and familiar presence. However, it was times like these when France seriously questioned why he kept them around. They were emotionally stifled, unless it involved fighting, or money. If only he had the Italy brothers. Sure, the two of them were useless when it came to anything practical, but they were so adorable.

"Perhaps your frozen hearts will thaw in spring," sniffed France, "Though I do want to know where you are both going and when I can expect you to return."

"I have business to take care of at home…and an old friend insisted I return, even paid travel expenses so I wouldn't have an excuse," grumbled Switzerland, "I'm not going because I want to."

"Right, on and off relationship with Austria," sneered France, "How is that going by the way?"

"We aren't like that at all!" snapped Switzerland, "He's wimpy and I'm always looking after him!"

"Spoken like a true man in denial," said France, applauding Switzerland, "When can I expect you back?"

"Just before the snow thaws. The last thing I need is to be stuck in an avalanche," said the blond nation, "I'll be here, don't worry."

"As for you, have you changed your mind about page-hood?" asked France hopefully. Ireland was an advantageous choice for many reasons. A close link to the Stuart line, and Scotland, enraging England, and if nothing else she would be an entertaining curiosity.

"No, I really don't think I belong there," replied Ireland, reaching into her pocket, "By the way, Scotland asked me to deliver this to you when he replied to my letter."

France eagerly snatched the letter from Ireland and opened it, breaking the frozen wax seal in his hurry. Ireland stepped back and looked up sceptically as a piece of sealing wax hit her in the face. There was something going on between France and her brother. She was not entirely sure what, but if France was involved…Ireland crossed her arms and watched France read intently, noting how he smiled softly to himself and placed the letter delicately in the breast pocket over his heart.

"See, you're delivering my mail, you should be my page," teased France. He sighed and started to look a little seasick again, "So he's in Massachusetts? It will be…quite some time before we see him no?"

"He can call Nessie if there's trouble," shrugged Ireland, "He'll be back before we know it."

"Nessie?" asked Switzerland, "Is that some kind of English fleet?"

"No, that's my brother's pet sea monster. Though it's sort of a runt, and not good at fighting."

France and Switzerland turned and looked at Ireland as if she had grown a second head, which she had not of course, but might as well have. Ireland shrugged and picked up her rifle, "Is that all sir?"

"Just when I thought I understood you…" mumbled France, tilting his head to the side, "Or do you just delight in confusing people?"

Ireland grinned, "You're Romanic, of course I confuse you."

France paused and imprinted the image of the freckled face grinning up at him in his mind. It was the first time he had seen her grin since Limerick, and this grin was different. There was nothing cruel or malicious behind it this time. This time, it had been playful, mysterious, daring him to delve deeper into her words and thoughts at his own peril. The eyes that stared up at him almost reminded him of Scotland, but there was something about them that was different, something untouched and wild. In an instant though, the grin was gone and her back was turned.

"Merry Christmas then, since I likely won't see either of you before then," she called over her shoulder as she waved goodbye in a bored fashion.

"Did you see that!" exclaimed France, "I do believe Irlande is flirting with me."

"No, I'm pretty sure that was contempt," corrected Switzerland.

"She grinned," protested France.

"With contempt. Didn't you know? Ireland hates Rome, and she's not the only one," explained Switzerland.

"Why? Rome gave us everything. Art, architecture, science, even Christianity, without Rome or the Renaissance we would never have advanced," said France firmly.

"Because…" said Switzerland, a little more quietly, his own expression darkening slightly, "His records brand our ancestors barbarians."

* * *

America was a brave colony, but he guessed even the bravest colonies got shaky knees when they approached jailhouses at night. Jailhouses where people had died and been hung. But he was brave, and a hero and he would not run away.

America went over his well thought out plan once more. He would burst through the wall, because heroes always burst through walls, and rip the door off of every cell in the building. Then they would all run, and once they were out, everything would be fine. America had spent most of his life living in the forest, so certainly fifty or so people would be fine as well. They did not even have to stay in the woods. Surely if they reached the next town, or even Boston, everything would be fine. America, unlike Scotland, was not willing or able to watch and wait for months writing letters and talking with government people. Talking took too long, it was better to jump in than sit around waiting for everything to be fine. America figured he was probably a genius as well as a hero. He would break everyone out of prison and everything would be fine.

Suddenly something cold and hard shot out and clamped itself around his mouth. America let out a screech and bit down as hard as he could. His teeth sank into it as his tongue instantly recognized the taste; leather. Something as hard and thick as a tree trunk wrapped itself around America's body and lifted him off the ground, expertly restraining him, "What exactly are you doing here lad?"

America froze as his mouth was released. In the dim light of the candle lantern he had abandoned he saw the outline of his uncle's scruffy face, "U-Uncle Scotland? I was…bathroom?"

"Long way from your bedpan," said Scotland, "What are you doing out here?"

"I was…" America bit his lip and forced his sheepish expression into a determined one, "You said we would save people! All we did was talk and write letters. That isn't good enough! People are still in jail. People still believe they're witches!"

"Keep your voice down…" whispered Scotland, "The last thing we need is a town full of hysterics finding out you take walks at night near execution grounds. Look, I'm sorry it's not glamorous, but that's how things are. Sometimes that's the best way to save people, even if it doesn't happen as quickly as you want it to."

"Well…why can't you tell them you use magic Uncle Scotland. You told me when you were explaining things. If you show Governor Phips than maybe things…maybe things can end quicker," said America.

Scotland signed and put his nephew on the ground, "If I show them what I can do, I'll be tied to a rock at the bottom of a lake. You're my nephew, they'd suspect you next."

"What if…I was thinking of breaking them out. They might have a better chance, and I know I don't want to be stuck in prison," said America, tugging his uncle's kilt, "Please Uncle Scotland. We have to do something."

"Lad, where would they go? Who would give them supplies? What's more, winter's setting in. Come on, we did our best," reasoned Scotland.

"No!" protested America, "We didn't do our best! If we did our best everything would be okay, and it's not okay! Uncle Scotland you're…coward! You just hide behind papers and books and you just don't care!"

America kept his voice as low as he could during his passionate outburst and kicked his uncle in the shin. It was unfair. The whole thing was unfair. Innocent people were locked up and Scotland did not even seem to care. He could not stand when things were unfair. He felt his Uncle's large hand rest itself on the top of his head and smooth his blond hair back.

"Listen…we'll go in and ask if anyone wants to leave. If they do, we'll let them out, but if they don't want to go, you can't force them," said Scotland, relenting slightly, "Do you have the key?"

"No…I'm the hero…" hiccupped America, "I was going to…burst through the wall…"

Scotland smiled softly, "No need for that…I can get us in."

Scotland walked towards the jailhouse. Despite his size, he walked in complete silence, never stepping on any loose twigs or branches, stepping lightly in zigzagging patterns on soft patches of earth or grass. America marvelled at his uncle and tried his best to imitate him. He had not seen anyone walk so silently and so in tune with the earth since before England, France and Spain had arrived. He had not spent much time with his native people since they had come, and he was starting to forget their languages and ways.

Scotland stepped silently up the steps, disregarding the scaffold and waiting noose entirely. His green eyes flicked about before he stooped to examine the lock. "Now, you have to promise not to tell anyone you saw me do this."

"Cross my heart and hope to die," swore America.

Scotland breathed in and out deeply. America waited patiently, watching as his breath came out in white puffs of smoke in the cold air to be carried away by the wind. Then something caught his eye. America turned back and saw the light of his lamp and gasped. He had forgotten to put it out! He was about to run to it and extinguish it, then the light suddenly flickered. America stepped back and clutched Scotland's kilt. It was moving every time Scotland breathed. America' jaw began to drop slightly, and fell as far as it would go when the light bounced clean off the candle and began to hop, taking bigger jumps before it bounded up on top of the jailhouse roof and down the chimney. A moment later the door swung open.

"Thank you Puca," said Scotland quietly, holding out his hand as the light settled into his palm. America squinted. The light had a body, and a small face.

"Don't mention it," said a voice that crackled like fire. It sent shivers down America's spine.

Scotland held out his arm towards where the candle had been, and the tiny flame-person jumped off the end of his pointing finger and away from the village. America stared in awe, "You have to teach me how to do that…"

"We'll have a whole ocean voyage for that. In the meantime…" said Scotland, slipping himself and America into the jailhouse. America looked at the jailer and smirked. He was asleep at his post. America stuck out his tongue and the man and ran ahead of Scotland.

"Follow me!" insisted America, "I know the way better."

Scotland allowed America to lead him deep into the prison. It was a grimy place that smelled like disease. It was cold, dark, dirty, exactly what was to be expected. America covered his nose and boldly ran ahead. He tugged on a door and found it unlocked, then looked at Scotland in confusion. Scotland shrugged, "Puca took care of that."

"I have got to learn that," smiled America, opening the cell doors, much to the confusion of the occupants. The men and women inside the cell stirred, calling out in confusion, gathering outside in the halls to be greeted by the sight of a large, burly Scotsman and a short, scrappy looking American child.

"So…you're probably wondering how we got in here and why the doors are open," began Scotland. The accused 'witches' nodded in confusion. Scotland took a breath inside, "The Governor has taken it upon himself to write to King William and to create a new, Superior Court of Judicature, that will not use spectral evidence. I expect you'll all be going back to your normal lives by spring, at the latest. However, if any of you want to risk a run to Boston or a neighbouring village, with no supplies, no map, in late autumn, at night, with ravenous animals and angry villagers running around, then the door is open."

"You're free!" cheered America happily.

Most of the accused glared at the pair, feeling mocked and went straight back into their cells. Scotland could not blame them in the least. If someone had offered him freedom and then snatched it away he would not react kindly either. However, he did see a sort of relief in the faces of the accused. Knowing they would be released by spring, and not executed, seemed to ease their minds. As the group filed back into their cells, Scotland saw a group of about thirteen standing there, staring up at him, looking for some kind of instruction. A young woman looked up at him with fretful eyes, "W-we'll chance it…"

Scotland grimaced. He had been hoping they would all have enough sense to stay behind in the cells and wait patiently until they were pardoned. America simply beamed back at his uncle with an 'I told you so' expression on his face. Scotland looked at them, "Outside, to the left, follow the bouncing light. You can't miss it."

"Good luck everyone!" sang America as the jail-breakers filed quickly out of the halls and past the sleeping guard. Scotland watched them go with a grave expression, "They might not make it…"

"But they want to try," said America, "And if they want to try, they should be allowed. Innocent people shouldn't be caged up, even if someone thinks it's for their own good."

America watched as his uncle froze at the words. His green eyes looked frenzied as if a sneak attack had been sprung on him. America took a step back as the big man next to him shivered and his hands curled into fists, "N-no…you're right…it's wrong…very wrong…"

"Uncle Scotland?" asked America.

Scotland stopped shaking and looked down, "Sorry…prisons scare me a little. Come on, let's get going. I have to cast a spell on the entire town to forget those people. Otherwise they'll suspect witchcraft and start killing again."

"But we did use magic, and England calls that irony," chirped America, before he looked up at his uncle with concern, "Are you sure you're okay Uncle Scotland? Why do prisons scare you? Maybe England could help you. He's always helping me."

Scotland looked down, "No…this is between you and me. Our little secret, remember?"

America grinned, "Alright. I like our quality time Uncle Scotland. We should do this more often!"

* * *

England sat in his office and looked over the letter. He ought to have been in bed, and he knew it. His smallpox symptoms had gone away, but he was still wounded. He reread the letter, trying to keep his mind off of the visions that kept going through his mind. Ireland and France, together, united firmly against him. Scotland and France, secret lovers for who knew how long. England bit his lip and concentrated on the letter, on Scotland's fluid yet urgent penmanship.

Wales rhythmic knock rang out. England sighed and turned his body, trying to ignore the pain in his chest, "Come in."

"Five o'clock~" sang Wales, balancing a tea tray precariously on his good hand as the injured one hung limply in a sling around his neck. Quickly, his sharp eyes observed the envelope on England's desk, "Alban wrote home? Did he send me a present?"

"No…" said England, slightly disturbed and annoyed by the Welshman's chipper attitude despite having been, once again, brutally injured by his little sister, "It's news from America. Apparently they're having witch trials in a village called Salem."

"Is that all?" asked Wales, sounding disappointed and smiling a little less, "We used to have those all the time. How many have they burned?"

"They don't burn them," corrected England.

"I guess we better send America some matches then," shrugged Wales, "He's doing it all wrong."

"No!" cried England, appalled at his brother's callous words, "According to Scotland, none of them are witches."

"Ours didn't use magic either. We just did it because we were bored and needed scapegoats. America will grow out of it," shrugged Wales.

"We made grave mistakes back then Wales, I don't want America to have this on his conscience," said England. He already knew that he and many other European nations would have to live with the shame of burning innocent women and men. The thought of America, still young and innocent writing such a dark chapter so early in his history made England's blood run cold. He was in charge of this strange, growing family, and he would protect it, by any means necessary.

Wales looked at England curiously, the intensity and variety of emotions that showed themselves unabashedly in his green eyes. Wales of course had seen that look before, it was the look England always got when he was worried about one of them, and given England's obsession with protecting his family by whatever means, Wales usually made himself scarce when he saw that face. He grinned, gripping the tea tray. This was normally the time England decided to kill a few thousand people to make sure everyone was safe. The Welshman raised the tray. He only had one useful arm, but if the tray slipped from this height onto England's head…

"Don't just stand there holding that tray uselessly. Grab a pen," ordered England, "I can't seem to grip a pen."

"But I'm right handed," said Wales, pointing to the mentioned hand which hung in its sling.

"So long as it's written, and sealed with my insignia, your penmanship doesn't matter. Your left hand will suffice," said England. He got up and motioned with his bandaged arm for Wales to sit, "And Wales, if you even think of signing his name as 'William of Orange-you-glad-I'm-not-banana' including slurs against the Dutch or implying the Stuart line should have taken the throne, I can promise you will regret it."

"You're no fun," mumbled Wales, and precariously dipped a goose feather quill into an inkpot, getting ready to write. "But you're not going to America? You don't need to…for his own good?"

England sighed, "I don't like hurting people Wales, I do try to solve my problems diplomatically you know."

Wales thought back to Llywelyn's assassination. "Of course English, you've made that very clear…"

* * *

_Salem Witch Trials! No, there were no will o' the wisps, Scotsmen or supernatural things involved (Or were there…) However, Governor Phips was in charge of the area at the time and his wife was mentioned by the afflicted. Increase Mather ruled out spectral evidence, and a new judging system was devised in October of 1692. The Governor also did write to William of Orange regarding the Salem Witch Trials. There was no prison break; however there seems to be confusion over thirteen inmates. Did they escape? Die in Prison? Eventually get pardoned? Some records conflict according to the sources I used, so, you get this crappy plot device :'D America had to be the hero somehow!_

_Rome: Rome was pretty awesome, but one thing I don't like is how other nations at the time are thought of as barbaric. They were actually pretty sophisticated with their own economies, religion, legal systems and their own technological innovations. Terry Jones' Barbarians gives an interesting and easy to read revisionist view of Rome and 'barbaric' tribes. But don't stop there, read more! Also, why the crap aren't Native Americans never mentioned _

_Not Burning Witches: In America, witchcraft was a civil crime punishable by being hung. In Europe, it was considered a religious crime so witches were burned. _

_Puca: See also Puck, Pooka, Will o' the Wisp…the list goes on. Puca though, seem to be fairy lights or lanterns. Also, this will NOT turn into a fantasy. Just some Kirkland family magic for this chapter. As to how America can see it...you'll see ;)_

_Special thanks to 4shadowedice4 for their recent review, and to everyone who's been reading, putting up with my ADD plot, alerting and favourite-ing. Also, thanks to DelMarch, who has been putting up with my ranting about what these characters do to my brain :D _

_Review~~~~? _


	10. Prelude to Murphy's Law

_I was going to write a Christmas chapter with England and America but then I remembered 'oh, right, the plot!' Sorry for all the randomness. I'm going to try to keep things running smoothly. I will write the Christmas story eventually as an omake, but for now, since the story is about the Irish Brigade, I guess I should get back to them huh? _

* * *

Prelude to Murphy's Law

France coughed and clung to the tent post, hoping nobody was watching. Switzerland's prediction had been eerily accurate. The country was in a dismal state, ordinary people were dying of famine while the nobles used limited resources to wage war, placing their efforts into Flanders to turn the tide of war. It was ludicrous, and France's body could feel it. War and famine were taking a toll on his body, making him feel congested, nauseous, and exhausted all the time. He knew he should not be on the battlefield. However if he left, he would be leaving Switzerland and Ireland to fight the Augsburg league by themselves, not to mention mortally wound the moral of all the French soldiers fighting. If only nations fought with the armies, then nobody would notice if he needed to take a sick day.

He opened the tent flap and received a strange surprise. Ireland was still in bed, as opposed to being awake and running around before the sun came up. She was curled up, in her uniform on the cot facing the side of the tent. France lay down himself, unable to stand up for very long. The water and food rations were not doing anything to help his health either. Panting he stared at the bland, boring canvas of the tent. He raised his hand to his throat, feeling like he was suffocating between his inflamed throat and clogged up sinuses. With sweaty, trembling fingers he tried to loosen his cravat. "Irlande…are you awake?"

The girl did not stir, but made a weak reply, "Awake enough…"

"Good…loosen this for me…" ordered France, "I can't breathe…"

Ireland rolled over and dragged her feet over to France. She looked down, her eyes dark and lacking their usual lustre. Her face was fixed in a sort of incredible depression. Setting to work, Ireland unfastened his brooch and untied the cravat. She unbuttoned the two top buttons of France's shirt, "Need anything else? Water? Blanket?"

"A better economy…" groaned France, "And possibly food aid…"

The girl nodded and went back to her cot, flopping back into the position France had discovered her in. France threw his arm across his face and groaned. Why him? Why did all of this have to happen to him? So what if his boss had gone just a tiny bit drunk with power and wanted to gain more territory, but that did not mean that France himself deserved all of this pain and suffering. Not to mention his people. Most of them were not directly involved in the conflict or had little to no say in whether they went to war of not. Most of the expenses that paid for the war could have gone to relief. Just thinking about it made France want to vomit. Also the nausea. The nausea might have had something to do with wanting to vomit.

"Irlande…are you sick?" asked France. He waited a while, but heard no reply. Of course the girl would not admit it; it would be an insult to her pride. France raised his arm slightly and glanced over, "Come here, talk to me…"

"You're sick, I'll just depress you," grunted Ireland.

"Do what I tell you for once…" ordered France, "I don't care…I just want something to listen to that isn't me dying…now tell me why you're behaving like this."

"Just a bad dream," mumbled Ireland.

"Then tell me about it…" insisted France, "But if there's intestines again…skip over that part…I don't think my stomach can handle it."

"Then stay in bed," said Ireland, "Switzerland and I can handle this, nobody has to know you stayed behind."

"I'll know I stayed behind," said France firmly, "Now stop changing the subject…"

Ireland's eyes looked dead. There was no energy in them, either positive or negative. Her body as well seemed to be drained. Everything about her gave the impression of someone who died and forgot to fall over. France did not think it was just a dream that was responsible, Ireland had been a little sluggish the last few months, but had kept to her routine until today. A nightmare had probably just been the nail in her metaphoric coffin. He had heard nothing about the going's on in the girl's country. Perhaps there was a minor blight that was keeping her slightly under the weather. In any case, whatever she had, it was not cripplingly bad.

"Have you ever heard the story of the Children of Lir?" asked Ireland, "I think that's what I dreamt about."

"If it isn't French…chances are I haven't…" replied France softly.

"Well, you probably know the pattern then. Four children who love their father and each other get cursed by their evil step mother. She turned the children into swans and forced them to wander for nine hundred years. But then…that's where it became different in my mind…" Ireland said lightly, looking at the ground, "I saw thousands, a flock of wild geese, flying on broken wings across the sea…"

"Wow…that did depress me…" coughed France.

"Warned you," shrugged Ireland.

Switzerland lifted the tent flap and looked in on the two nations. Both of them were visibly ill, though France was in a much worse condition than Ireland. "Both of you idiots should go home and rest…"

"It's just a little depression…" said Ireland listlessly.

"So long as my men fight, I fight," said France, sitting up and trying to look healthy.

Switzerland sighed, "Look at yourselves. I mean it, take a good long look. France, you're covered in sweat, you can't stand up straight for more than five minutes and you can't keep food down. Ireland, I have no idea what's wrong with you, but you look like some kind of wraith. You're going to get yourselves shot."

"We're fine…" said the two, sick nations in unison.

The healthy nation rolled his eyes and wondered how he got himself into this. Yes, France had beaten him back in 1515, one thing lead to another and now they seemed to be joined at the hip. Switzerland sat on his own cot watching the other two nations, hoping they would stop this lunacy and decide not to go into battle because they were clearly physically unfit to do so. There was a strong tradition in his country of not showing weakness in battle, a trait he admired, but the two nations were taking it too far. France would probably keel over and faint before he even reached the battlefield. Switzerland had known France for a very long time, long enough to predict what he could and could not handle. If France did by some miracle make it to the battlefield, he would not last long at all.

"Whatever, get yourselves killed, I'm still going to have a look at you both before we go," insisted Switzerland.

Ireland nodded and rose groggily, leaving the tent and securing the flap behind her. Switzerland went to France's side, "Leave the flap open, I'll need light."

Ireland nodded listlessly and opened the flap again, standing with a visible slouch and looking like she would curl up and fall asleep at the drop of a hat. Switzerland bit his lip as he washed his hands in the basin kept by France's cot. This was not good. He would almost rather fight without the other two if this was the condition they would go into battle in. Switzerland looked down at France, who was struggling to keep his eyes open. "Well…how bad am I really?"

"Tell you in a minute, just hold still," said Switzerland, trying not to sound too rough.

He pulled back France's eyelid and looked at the eye critically, finding him to be possibly even more drowsy and inattentive than Ireland. Thankfully though, his pupils did not seen to be dilated and his eyes were not bloodshot. Continuing the impromptu exam Switzerland discovered France's nose completely clogged, his throat red and raw, and his breathing ragged. Switzerland laid his head lightly on France's chest to listen to his heart. The first piece of good news all day, the superpower's heart was still strong. Switzerland breathed a sigh of relief, "Sore at all? Any chills?"

"Aches, sometimes, and my neck is stiff…but Suisse…I need to know, how long can I last?" asked France.

"No danger of you dying, but if you fence…I'd give you no more than thirty seconds. Your body might be able to take longer, but they'll pick off, you're so weak right now," said Switzerland, "Shooting would better conserve your energy, but your eyes are unfocused, your hands are shaking, you can't aim or reload. France, if I were you, I wouldn't do this. I won't tell you not to, I know you won't listen to me, but for the record this is a stupid idea."

"You're good with chemistry and science…isn't there a quick fix for this?" asked France.

"Dammit France, I'm a medic, not a miracle worker," cursed Switzerland, "The herbs I'd like to use for this only grow in the Americas. I might have something though. It won't be a cure, and it won't take the pain away, but it will help your breathing a little."

France watched as Switzerland rummaged through his bag and pulled out the last thing he expected. Switzerland revealed a handful of small balls wrapped in thin layers of brightly coloured, striped paper. "Candy? Your remedy is candy?"

"Peppermints. Take them before we fight, they'll clear out your sinuses," assured Switzerland, "Ireland, you're next, get in here."

The girl slumped back into the room looking troubled and restless as before, "Mhmm?"

Switzerland looked her over, "So, what's wrong with you? Unusual weather? Political instability? Epidemic?"

"I don't know…I haven't seen anything like that in my reports, I just feel tired and worried," said Ireland.

"Have you been eating alright? Getting enough sleep?" asked Switzerland.

"Mm, I suppose," said Ireland listlessly.

The healthy nation looked at her gravely. This was not a case of depression the way humans thought of it. Her body had was slowing down gradually, and the cause was not brought on by her lifestyle. It had to be something going on in her home, something was slowing her down and depressing her. "Go find the cook. Tell him to give you either nuts, seeds, eggs or raw vegetables. They should give your body an energy boost."

"If you say so…" said Ireland, dragging herself out of the tent.

Switzerland watched her leave, then blinked and rubbed his eyes. For a moment he could have sworn he had seen a dark aura of gloom swirling around her. He looked down at France, who had passed out and was breathing raggedly.

"We are so fucked…"

* * *

England grinned. This was going much better than he could have planned. He could lose miles of territory at this point and not even care. Not that losing miles of territory was possible at this point. His spies had just gotten back to him and reported the most delightful news imaginable. France was deathly ill, barely able to get out of bed. Secondly, Ireland was becoming sluggish and also having difficulty moving. This of course was his own doing. He felt giddy, only a couple laws were enacted and his sister was a mess. This was why he was meant to guide and protect his family, they were all weak and incapable without him. England was the only one who could take care of them, whether they saw it or not, and he would continue to keep them in line, and safe from outsiders.

As for France, that just made him laugh, especially after their parting before winter retirement. The bastard had been so cocky, so sure that he could take on all of Europe and win. France had been wrong, dead wrong, and England was glad he was getting a little divine comeuppance. It was no Protestant Wind, but it served its purpose nicely. France, no matter how good he was with a sword, or how mighty his king was, would not be able to do anything to stop him. Unless…

England frowned slightly as he thought back to Steenkerque. France had deliberately held his little sister in place, as the first volley was fired. At first, he had convinced himself that France had only been holding her up to make sure she was not knocked back by the recoil of her rifle, but now he was not so sure. Ireland had after all not been using a rifle, but pistols. The recoil from two pistols, as small as Ireland was, would never have been enough to knock her backwards. England had a terrible feeling now. He was now fairly certain France had used his little sister as a human shield, and the thought disgusted him. It figured though. England was fairly certain only France would stoop so low as to use a young girl to protect himself from a shower of bullets. This however just once again proved how right England was about his siblings making decisions for themselves. Ireland ran off with France and became a meat shield for her trouble.

England could only imagine what his brothers would do if they governed themselves completely. Wales would no doubt offend everyone he came into contact with and promptly have war declared on him. Scotland, who was admittedly slightly better at controlling himself, would probably be fine for a while, but then get too involved in some stupid project or another, pay attention to nothing but his brief curious pursuits and collapse. England glowered. He did not like the idea of Scotland with a colony, especially at a time like this. There was a war going on after all, but perhaps England was the only one of his siblings with the good sense to remember that.

England looked up from his spy reports and watched Wales chew on a raw leek. Yes he was the only one of them with any sense…

"Hey English, if Iwerddon comes home, you'll repeal the Penal Laws, right?" asked Wales.

"Yes, of course," said England gruffly, holding the reports out lazily over a candle. Reports of this nature were after all to be disposed of quickly. England watched the flame shyly make its way to the paper before lapping at its edge like a puppy.

"You'll keep your word this time?" asked Wales.

"What do you mean this time? I always keep my word. I'm a gentleman," sniffed England indignantly.

"You and sis have a treaty," reminded Wales, "You promised."

England sighed and wracked his brain for the right word to describe the situation, "Well, it's not all about her little temper tantrum you know. There's trouble brewing in Spain. The laws will benefit her if Spain tries to invade us."

"Hm? How so…" pouted Wales, "Most of those laws are just to suppress the popish."

"Spain is Catholic," reasoned England, "He won't be able to get a foothold through religion this way. You see, it's to keep us all safe."

"But…you'll repeal them when she comes home. Doesn't that defeat the purpose?" asked Wales through a mouthful of leek.

"Wales, I think it's for the best that you farm your sheep, eat your leeks, shoot who I tell you to, while leaving the thinking to me," suggested England, "You do trust me don't you Wales? Haven't I always been a good brother and protected you? I made the pain go away didn't I?" asked England.

Wales cocked his head to the side. England was serious, dead serious, and very sincere in his words. He meant every word that came out of his mouth. Wales stopped chewing his leek for a moment. He did believe England, he had taken the pain away. He showed Wales to smile after everything that happened and he never felt the horrible blinding pain again. England had also protected him. Not all the time, but England saying he had protected Wales was not a lie. "Yes, I trust you English…but…as a nation-"

"There should be no buts," said England gently. Once the note was burned England blew out the candle and took Wales' hand in his own. "Everything will be fine. You'll see. I'll bring us all home together safe."

"Does safe mean happy English?" asked Wales grinning.

England was about to answer when Netherlands waltzed in like he owned the place. Why had he gotten a Dutchman for a king again? Right, James just had to go and produce a male, Catholic heir to the throne of his country. He also would have said something about Netherland's knocking, but knew this would only merit a snippy remark about not being able to knock on a tent flap.

"Ugh, what's that smell?" asked the tall blond.

"Burning stuff, and leeks, want one?" offered Wales, holding out the raw vegetable.

"No…you go ahead," assured Netherlands, covering his nose at the overwhelming scents, "I want to get this started battle and end it quickly. As efficiently as possible."

"You seem eager today," observed England.

Netherlands looked at England darkly "William of Orange is here. He'll be watching. We've been losing to that bastard a lot…I am not losing to France again, not in front of William."

"I completely agree," said England, nodding, "Don't worry. I just received a report from our spies, France is deathly ill from famine, and Ireland is in a daze from Penal Law. They're more or less useless, but we still shouldn't try to provoke them. The only one we really need to worry about is Switzerland. As good as he is, he's only one unit, and we have the higher ground."

"That's what you said at Steenkerque, and Lagos…we haven't had much luck since La Hogue and Barfleur, and those battles were over a year ago" noted Netherlands, "Why can't you get Scotland back here instead of sending him overseas all the time. He's a human canon."

"A human canon yes, but also a loose one. He won't fight France, it would have only been a matter of time until he switched sides and shot us all in the back," muttered England.

"I don't get you…" grumbled Netherlands, "You're ruthless, you're a fair tactician, and you're dead cunning when it comes to politics. So why do you get all soft when it comes to them? Break them, do whatever you have to like you always do."

England pursed his lips together and looked at his ally, long and hard. "You know, I could ask the same thing about you and Belgium."

Netherlands rolled his eyes before turning away. Wales stood by England grinning knowing the real answer to that question. England was nice to his siblings because that was the only way he could live with himself after all the blood he spilled. English could convince himself he was still a good, decent person if his siblings were well cared for. He could justify every crime he committed by saying it had been done to protect them, or stabilise them. Wales had a vague idea of what it meant to be a good big brother; England had driven it into his head. A good big brother protected his little siblings no matter what, even if it meant protecting them from themselves. Wales, though most would not have been able to tell because of his subservient behaviour towards England, was in fact the oldest of the siblings. And he would protect his dear little brother England, who was getting just a bit too big for his britches, and could do with a little lesson in humility.

* * *

Ireland groggily made her way through the camp munching on a bag of seeds the company cook had given to her. Normally the excitement and chaos of an army moving out excited her ancient warlike blood, but not this time. It was odd, she simply was not able to get excited or feel awake. The messy red haired girl shoved another handful of seeds into her mouth. Switzerland said it would give her energy, but they did not seem to be kicking in yet. Perhaps after a few minutes when she'd had time to digest them a bit she would feel more lively. Ireland sighed, usually her heart would be pounding excitedly as she prepared to move out and face the enemy. She was beginning to think Switzerland was right, something must be wrong back on her island.

"Cillian?" called a concerned voice.

Ireland turned, hearing her human name and saw Sarsfield. He had become quite distinguished during the last few months of fighting, even promoted by Louis XIV himself. He looked down at the girl who personified his country with grave concern and placed a hand to her forehead to check for a fever. "Are you alright?"

"Patrick…I want to go home…

The solider looked at his nation sympathetically and moved his hand to stroke her red curls, "I'm sorry…but it's for the best. If we return, war will follow us, and perhaps if we prevail, James the second can reclaim the throne."

"I know all that…but…" Ireland protested softly.

Sarsfield pulled his nation into a gentle embrace, like father embracing his child, "I miss home too…Perhaps we'll go back next time there's a recruiting campaign. James still hasn't seen his homeland after all."

Ireland smiled slightly, "No, we can't have that. Poor babe might grow up thinking he's French…"

"What may I ask is wrong with being French?"

Ireland turned slowly on her heel to see France leaning on Switzerland haphazardly, dragging his feet along the ground. "There is nothing wrong with being French…now stop spinning Ireland…and tell all of your officers to stop spinning too…"

Sarfield cast Ireland a worried glance, as he was the only Irish officer in France's line of sight, only to become more worried as Ireland spaced out and nearly fell asleep where she stood.

"I am so sorry to bother you sir," apologized Switzerland, nodding at Sarsfield, "Come on Ireland we're…uh…fighting the English, and Vikings."

Ireland perked up slightly, "I'll kill all the bastards…"

"You do that…" said Switzerland, now very much fearing the outcome of this battle. He sighed and looked at France, "You had better be paying me extra for this. Ireland, take his other side, he's heavy. Probably from all that fancy French food."

Ireland nodded, shaking her officer's hand farewell before slipping under France's free arm to support him. The superpower stumbled forward, "Irlande…I never knew you liked them old and married."

"Liked…? What? No, he's my officer, that's inappropriate," said Ireland firmly, "And as you said, he's married, happily married. Honora's wonderful for him."

"So you won't deny you like him…?"

"…shut up and save your strength for England…"

* * *

_Interesting historic side note, when Swiss mercenaries came into French service one of the (male) attendants noted that he had never seen such beautiful men. Typical France… _

_As for the story, there was a crop failure and famine in the year 1693 that resulted in about two million deaths, on top of a war, and a minor economic crisis. Probably wasn't a good year for France in terms of his health. In 1693 Penal law was in effect, though the laws were mainly enacted in 1691, 1692, and 1695. (Gasps! I'm taking creative license!) _

_England's excuse: It was because the Spanish were acting up. Yep, that was actually part of the excuse for Penal Law. _

_The Children of Lir – Ireland is alluding to one of the tree usual endings of the Children of Lir, where the children in the form of swans are forced to fly in exile from their homes for 900 years until their spell was broken by a priest. _

_Dammit France – I'm a Trekkie…I couldn't help myself. And as to why I made Switzerland the medic, a Swiss scientist introduced chemistry into medicine. Also Swiss medics, red cross, 'nuff said :P Plus, I could never in good conscience make France the medic, and Ireland would probably just tell people to man up instead of treating them ._


	11. Everything that can go wrong

Everything That Can Go Wrong…

Scotland sighed, put a stopper in his inkpot, and wiped off his quill with a handkerchief. First Massachusetts, now Nova Scotia. It seemed England was determined to keep him away from the fighting. In one way, it was an advantage, he would not have to fight France. On the other hand, he would not be able to help his lover in any way either. Scotland was fully capable of being as underhanded and sneaky as his younger brother if he needed to be, and could not help but think of all the ways he could have assisted France. Forging fake orders, miscommunications, delaying messages, they were all quite easy to do, and he still might have been able to do them from Nova Scotia with the help of a few trusted subordinates. However, England had seen it fit to keep any news of the war from reaching him, making any plans he might have had useless without the vital information of where and when. Ireland had also refused the request to send information to Scotland. It was understandable though, if any of her letters were intercepted by England or his pirates on their way to the new world, it might give away vital information about the French army, so her letters were kept to simple everyday things.

Still, he did not like it. France was fighting, possibly at this very moment and there was nothing he could do about it. He could not protect France, he could not foil any of England's strategies. All he could do was sit safely behind his desk and take care of administrative business. He looked at Ireland's letter, sitting on the corner of the desk and reread it. It worried him. There was no news of war, but it seemed there was some sort of famine going on that was weakening France. Scotland clenched his fists. Was there nothing he could do at all? Was there no spell or prayer that he could invoke that would cross an ocean and assist his lover instantaneously? He shoved the letter back into the envelope as a smear caught his eye.

Curious, he looked at it. It was nothing unusual, an ink blot in the corner, but it made Scotland wonder. Was his sister trying to send him coded messages? He reread the letter again, seeing nothing unusual about the grammar. No out of place capital letters, mirrored letters, unusual signs or symbols or obvious grammatical errors that could translate in a coherent code. Scotland sighed, it had just been wishful thinking, or his imagination.

At least, that was what he thought until he saw the strange way Ireland seemed to be crossing her Ts. She had used an awful lot of words that had Ts in them in her latest letter. They were crossed at various angles, sometimes slightly diagonally, and squinting Scotland found some of them had been double crossed. He pulled out a magnifying glass and took a look at his sister's messy print. Yes, some of them were double crossed, even triple crossed, only viewable under a sharp eye or a glass. It was not just the Ts either, some of the Xs had an almost microscopic vertical line through where the lines intersected. It was not his imagination. There was something there, but what?

Scotland took a blank sheet of paper and scratched some vertical lines out. Quickly, he began to scratch out every horizontal and diagonal line, along with each X with a vertical line. It took some time, as Ireland's handwriting was not particularly neat or fluid, but after a few minutes, he had every unusual mark scrawled out on one of his vertical lines. He held the paper at arm's length and looked down at it, grinning. Ogham. It certainly looked like the old druidic script at least. He read through what he had written down. Surely enough, it was a phrase in their ancient tongue.

"_Can you read this? I've sent this message three times already." _

Scotland grinned, "Clever lassie…"

"U-Uncle Scotland?"

Scotland smiled and watched as his quieter nephew slowly slipped into the room. He was dressed like a little courier du bois and softly padded across the makeshift office in moccasined feet. Scotland offered out an arm, which the young Canada latched onto and was lifted into the big man's lap. "Why are you so happy Uncle Scotland? I thought you were mad because you couldn't help Papa."

"I still am, but your Aunt Ireland and I have started playing a game," explained Scotland.

"What sort of game?" asked Canada, "M-May I play too?"

Scotland smiled warmly, "Of course you can, but first you have to learn some Gaelic. It's a language game."

"How do you play?" asked Canada.

"Well, you write a letter, and then you hide a code in it. Then the person you send the letter to writes a code back," explained Scotland, "It's like a puzzle, you have to use your head to solve it."

"Oh, but, do I have to use Gaelic? Not many people here read it," said Canada quietly.

"Hm…well, I only know how to do the code for Gaelic, but we can make one up for French or English if you want," suggested Scotland.

"I do want to learn Gaelic, but I don't know anyone who could play the game with me when you leave," explained Canada, "Is there someone I could play with?"

Scotland paused and thought it over before smiling kindly, "Well, I know a little boy who lives in a Southern country who speaks Gaelic and gets very lonely. I'm sure he would like it if you wrote to him and played with him."

"What's his name? Is he a colony like me?" asked Canada.

"Yes, his name is Darien," explained Scotland, "I'll teach you how to write Ogham and tell you all about him. Now, he's about your age in terms of looks and lives in a tropical country with lots of different plants and hot weather…"

* * *

Netherlands stared at the motley band that stood, if one could even call it standing, at the bottom of the slope. France, his face flushed with fever induced famine slouched over Ireland and Switzerland. His eyes seemed to be desperately trying to focus themselves and his breath came out in shallow, ragged gasping and panting. Ireland looked like a wraith with w wan complexion and dark circles under her eyes, looking like she would fall asleep standing up. As England had said, the only healthy one was Switzerland, but he looked as angry and flighty as a hornet whose nest had just been drop kicked. Netherlands breathed a sigh of relief. How could they possibly lose this fight?

Wales also looked down the hill, grinning as usual. He looked over at England who was grinning as well, but not in the same way as Wales. England's grin was different, it was smug. Smug was not a good thing, and that grin, in Wales opinion, had to go.

"Last chance to change sides sister," offered England, sneering knowingly, "You look ill, you can't handle this. Come home now and I can promise you'll feel better."

Ireland raised her pointer and middle fingers in a V shape, making Wales giggle and England groan. Netherlands sighed, "I think that means no. Can we start shooting them already?"

At the bottom of the slop Ireland turned to Switzerland groggily, "What's the plan? We can't move much like this."

"The only think we can do. Shoot, hold them back, and hope we don't get ourselves killed…" said Switzerland gravely.

"Nobody is getting killed…" coughed France, "The plan is to hold our ground…advance when we can. Try to pick off Pays de Galles first, he's their best shot…and he's annoying…"

"And what about you? You can't advance," noted Switzerland.

"I'll have to leave the advancing to you two then…no matter what…take them out and make it up the slope…" said France.

"You'll be a sitting duck. Do you really want us to leave you wide open like that?" asked Ireland.

"No, of course not…I hate being shot…but I don't see any alternative if we want a chance at winning…" said France gravely, "Get to your positions…both of you. Don't worry about me."

Wales skipped over to his position, grinning happily. It was all too perfect. Ireland was so far gone and England was so full of himself it would be easy. It would only take a few seconds if he wanted to be quick, but what fun was quick? Quick was boring. England never let him have any fun either. He was always on such a short leash, never being allowed to do or go where he pleased anymore. Wales figured he might as well make do with what was given to him.

"English, can we shoot them now?" asked Wales, "I'm kind of bored."

"I agree," said Netherlands, "Let's finish this."

"Wait..." said England, "Let them take their positions, then go ahead."

England watched smugly as Ireland and Switzerland moved away from France and took their positions on the field. He almost laughed as France stood there below him, holding up his gun with trembling hands. France was an idiot to think he even had a chance of winning. England knew he had never been the strongest country that had only come to prominence within the last few hundred years, but he was still a great nation. France was wrong, very wrong to take him lightly, to try to take America from him, to take Ireland away, to poison Scotland against him. France would in time see how wrong he was to trifle with the British Empire.

And England would never be alone.

The island nation stared down his nose and the slope at his younger sister. He guessed she was glaring. He cast a glance at Switzerland. The blond haired mercenary was not frightened of the fight in the face of obvious defeat, but he was still flighty. England could see it in his eyes. Switzerland knew pain and defeat were upon him, and naturally it made him uneasy. England smirked. "Fire when ready."

Wales, or was it Netherlands, not that it mattered took the first shot and neatly clipped Switzerland in the arm. The wound was not a serious one, but it would certainly be painful. Whoever shot second got Ireland similarly in her left arm. She stirred slightly, but maintained her dead expression, as if she simply did not care anymore. England aimed his riffle down the slope as the three enemies took aim. Wales seemed to catch on that they were aiming at him and took cover as three shots were fired. Two missed, and one hit in the shoulder. England's shoulder ached in sympathy for Wales, but when he saw France fly backwards, knocked off balance from the recoil of his weapon, he had to laugh. The Frenchman had not even been shot and he was already down. England took aim at his fallen enemy as his two comrades charged down the hill. "Too easy."

"Iwerddon~" chirped Wales, clambering from behind his cover as his enemies reloaded "Did you miss me Iwerddon? Stabbing me through the heart wasn't nice..."

Wales grinned as his sister drew her sword. She looked so funny that way. He was used to her face full of passion and emotion when she held her weapons, but not now. She was just a waking corpse. It was easy enough for Wales to draw his own weapon and in a matter of minutes knock Ireland's epee de cour from her hands. He smiled sweetly, and to be fair, grabbed his sister by the hair on the very top of her head near the scalp and stab her a few times. It was only fair, she had gotten him through the heart. That precious bible of hers did say an eye for an eye somewhere in it. Then, feeling extra fair, he tossed his cutlass aside to level the playing field.

England had been right about one thing, Ireland was certainly gone. Wales punched her in the face once, than twice, as she twitched, trying to react. It was almost no fun at all the way she could not fight back. He missed fighting his siblings at full strength, it was the only time it seemed he ever felt strong again. Not that he had ever been particularly strong to begin with. "Come on sis, do something. Punch me back. It's not that hard. See, I'll even show you how."

Wales struck her soundly across the jaw, his shoulder aching from the pain, but it was worth it. "See? It's easy. Or you could do this."

The Welshman's knee connected with his sister's gut. She gasped, twitched, clawed at him, but it seemed she had lost her will to fight. Wales sighed, "Oh, you're no fun. You used to be fun. Then you started counting beads because you got scared of going to hell."

Wales raised his sister to eye level, her feet barely touching the ground as she was held up by her hair. "Well, I guess since we aren't going to have fun, you're going to do something for me. Don't make that face, you'll do it. You'll even enjoy it. And you know something else? You'll stop exactly when I want you to. Oh Iwerddon, you're such a stupid little girl. It's so cute how you thought he'd play fair..."

France gasped in pain and effort to breathe. 'Damn him' was the only coherent thought that was running through his mind. It echoed in his mind over and over like a voice ringing through a deep cave. He had been knocked back by his weapon's recoil and had been struggling to get up when a shot pierced his stomach. Looking up through blurred eyes and loose blond tresses he saw his enemy in his red coat approaching slowly, taking his sweet time reloading and walking leisurely down the slope. Switzerland was duelling with Netherlands, France could not tell who was winning, as was the case with Wales and Ireland. The two figures were just a blur of red in his vision. Suddenly something cold pressed itself to his forehead, moving his hair from his eyes. France looked up and saw a blur of blond, green and red. He knew who it was.

"You should have quit while you were ahead," said England curtly. France could feel the barrel of the gun trail lightly from his forehead down his face and throat, hover slightly above his heart and then move down his stomach. France groaned. England was probably trying to decide where he wanted to shoot. "Surrender and I'll make this painless."

France tried to shake his head, but it seemed his neck did not want to cooperate with him. By some miracle he managed to choke out the word 'no'.

"Very well, when you wake up, give Louis and James my regards," sighed England.

France braced himself for it. A bullet to the heart or some other vital region. Instead he felt a sudden jerk, heard a high pitched noise and saw a flash of red. The red blurred and swirled above him as he heard grunts of effort and screams. He could not distinguish words anymore as he bled out on the ground. He fumbled for his flint lock riffle on the blood soaked ground, hearing high pitched screeches and low shouts filled with anger and agony. He felt the long cold barrel of his gun as the red swirling and blurring mass fell to the ground, reloading his weapon as they moved on the ground as one. He took aim at the mass of red. He would shoot one of them, hopefully the right one. It seemed there was red everywhere in his vision now. The mass of red on the ground, a figure in red pushing someone slowly up the slope, and another red one closing in slowly. He aimed at the red mass on the ground and fired.

Three shots rang out, followed by a scream and a low yell. The screaming persisted, the red mass separating into two distinct figures. One lay limp on the ground while the other clutched its face, screaming in agony. The approaching red figure finally reached France's side, and a mop of tawny hair told him that this was not Switzerland. He leaned down overtop of France smiling pleasantly. The superpower groaned as the tawny haired nation dig his fingertips lightly into the bullet wound. "Hm, English got you good. Don't worry, we're pulling back. I think he learned his lesson."

Switzerland approached, aiming his gun at Wales' head. "Step away from him Brit."

"I don't speak that French swill," said Wales, standing up, glaring at Switzerland through narrow green eyes, filled with anger as he growled in English, "My name is Cymru, not Brit, you Celt-German bastard."

* * *

When France came to his senses he found himself staring up at the canvas of his tent. He was half tempted to let himself think that the whole battle had been a dream, but a tight pain in his stomach told him that it was anything but a figment of his subconscious. Shakily he ran his hand over his bare stomach to the wound. He could feel a line in his flesh were someone had cut him open to get to the bullet trapped in his flesh. He felt a neat line of stitches and pulled his hand back, sickened by the feel.

"Good morning sunshine…" grumbled Switzerland.

"Mon dieu…how long have I been out?" groaned France. He felt somehow better. At least better than he had before the battle began. He could feel new energy pumping through his veins despite the famine that wracked his body.

"Two weeks," replied Switzerland, "You over exerted yourself, took a bullet to your gut, you're still sick, I'm not really surprised it took you this long to come to."

France tilted his head to get a good look at his Swiss mercenary. The shaggy blond boy knelt on the ground, cleaning some bloody surgical instruments and packing clean bandages into his kit. He had likely been busy for the past few weeks assisting surgeons and nurses with their trade. The mercenary was not wearing his red coat for once, looking almost like a sort of well to do town doctor. France sighed to himself, it had been a long time since he had seen Switzerland out of uniform. It was odd thinking of the tactical man as anything other than a soldier.

"So…give me the good news, and the bad news, what's happened?" asked France, bracing himself for the worst.

"Which do you want first?" asked Switzerland.

"Good, I guess."

"We won. Thanks to a bigger army, we had thirty thousand more men. We've taken the Duke of Ormonde prisoner, so we can expect a ransom and we've captured enough standards to make a tapestry. All in all, we did alright," said Switzerland.

"And the bad?" asked France.

Switzerland bit his lip slightly and looked up at France solemnly, "We've…had quite a few casualties…"

France sighed and laid his head back, closing his eyes, trying to mentally prepare himself for the loss, "Go ahead…"

"The Duke of Berwick was captured, Prince Conti was wounded and is being treated. Marshal Luxembourg is fine, but both his sons were wounded. The elder will be fine, but I'll be surprised if the younger ever walks again. Nine thousand casualties in total, though the enemy's side lost nineteen thousand," explained the mercenary.

"Nine thousand…" France murmured quietly to himself. That would be nine thousand sons not coming home to mothers, or nine thousand families without fathers, or nine thousand wives or lovers that would never see their sweethearts. He kept his eyes closed and wanted to pray. He wanted to, but the words would not come. "Where is Ireland? I need her help remembering something…"

Switzerland looked down at his now clean tools, and began to scrub them again for good measure, "She's at the chapel in Huy."

"Figures," said France to himself, "I feel a little more energetic. Probably the moral boost from the victory. I think I'll go see her. Why is she in Huy anyways? Sightseeing?"

"She said she got some bad news from home she needed to deal with, and…" said the mercenary trailing off.

"And what?" asked France, sitting up on his cot.

"Her officer friend, the one she was talking to before we left, he's dead too."

"I see…" said France, lowering his eyes.

"There is one more thing. We took Wales prisoner," said Switzerland, "But we can't get anything out of him. He won't say anything."

"You haven't tried hitting him?" asked France, "Threatening him might work too, and there's always torture."

"Trust me, we tried. He just…sits there and smiles…" said Switzerland with a shudder, "I personally shot him in the knee to convince him to talk…he just…smiled at me. I can't tell if he's lying, or if he just enjoys pain."

France nodded and got to his feet, feeling much less faint than before the battle. "I'm going to get Irlande, in the meantime, if Pays de Galles won't talk, discuss what to do with him with the officers. If they want my opinion, I say we kill him, repeatedly."

* * *

"They've…they've taken him…they took him…" England blabbered to himself uselessly as he paced about the camp aimlessly, waiting for a messenger to bring news negotiating Wales' return.

"I don't suppose the fact that we got our asses handed to us in front of our boss doesn't matter much…" grumbled Netherlands, snorting back a thick white powder as he followed England. He offered his box of snuff out to England, "Take some. It'll calm your nerves."

England nodded and took a pinch of it with trembling fingers before taking a deep snort. He sneezed lightly before his muscles and mind began to relax under the influence of the drug. He took a few deep breaths and tried to sort through his thoughts. They had lost what was supposed to have been an easy victory. A medal had even been struck to celebrate the victory before hand. Many soldiers were dead, and Wales had been captured. Ireland was still missing, Scotland refused to cooperate, and France, the bastard, was still holding on despite famine and economic chaos.

"William's going to chew us out big time," sighed Netherlands, "On the bright side though, we made a pretty big mess."

"Forgive me, but I really don't see how that's a bright side…" sighed England.

"You might have forgotten, but I have a traitor little sister of my own," reminded Netherlands, "And this war is going on in her backyard. She's going to be pissed for sure."

"Oh, right, we're in Belgium, aren't we?" asked England, "Sorry, but I'm a little preoccupied with Wales being kidnapped by France."

Netherlands shrugged, "I really wish you had told me you couldn't control them. I would have understood, but I was hoping all this time you knew how to deal with sibling like that."

"You've had a funny way of showing it…" grumbled England.

"Oh, you haven't seen me lose my temper," said Netherlands, snorting back a little more powder, "I'm on your side. I honestly wish she had come with me when I broke off with Spain…Maybe that's just how girls are."

"You know what's wrong with this world? Sisters. Stupid, spoiled little sisters ruin everything," ranted England, snorting more powder himself, "Sisters should be dependent on their brothers, that's the way it is in civilized society. And then there's Ireland, running around like a savage, pretending to be a boy. She must be doing it to make a fool out of me…"

"Belgium's the opposite, she won't leave Spain when we could be independent together," sighed Netherlands.

"Now I'm angry…what was I thinking about earlier? I was upset about something," mumbled England, "Say Netherlands, do you think this stuff might affect our brai…our mi…our thinking things?"

"Huh…wait, how much have you had?" asked Netherlands, "You were only supposed to take enough to settle your nerves…"

"Yeah…Yeah you're right! Because we're gentlemen! England and Netherlands, allies forever!" cried England in a very emotional way, flinging his own arm around Netherlands, "Great, now once the ground stops moving, we'll…what were we doing again?"

"You're no gentleman you old pirate," chided Netherlands, supporting England, "Next time I cut you off after a pinch…"

* * *

_History time…Oh lordy there's a lot here this time isn't there? _

_Okay, battle of Landen. The Allied forces really did think it would be an easy win, but the French managed to beat them back, resulting in one of France's greatest victories. It was a humiliating defeat, and William III supposedly cried out, "Oh that insolent nation!" referring to France. _

_Snuff –Snuff was considered a gentlemen's drug. Really in this time period, England and Netherlands using these drugs would not be seen as anything illicit. The tobacco in snuff was often mixed with other compounds to make it smell better when inhaled, and sometimes with other more potent drugs (I can see Netherlands doing this for some reason)__. I also think Netherlands and England would be able to bond while getting high…this is Hetalia after all. _

_Spain, Netherlands and Belgium – Netherlands won its independence from Spain after the eighty years war, a long and bloody conflict. Belgium, or Spanish Netherlands remained with Spain though. (My friend's Dutch history teacher refers to Belgians as traitors in class…it's kind of scary.) _

_Patrick Sarsfield did die three days after the battle of Landen in the nearby town of Huy, having taken a bullet to the chest. Surgeons were unable to remove it for fear of damaging a large artery the bullet was lodged near. His last words were, "Oh, that this were for Ireland." He loved his country until the end._

_Side note about me…things have been hectic, I haven't had muse to write, and I lost the USB stick my fics were on…and…I don't know why but I've been terrified of updating for some reason. And of reading reviews. I don't know what I'm scared of, nobody's flamed me or anything, but I feel so scared…_

_Eh, maybe I'm just weird…_


End file.
